


Torch Song

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abuse, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Friendship, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Romance, Slash, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, UST, alternative universe, badassery, no graphic depictions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate universe partially based on the characters and location in "Upper West Side Story", but with a twist - of the "Victor/Victoria" kind. Neal Caffrey teaches European History, but has an interesting and potentially career-damaging gig at his godmother's nightclub. Enter Peter Burke, talent agent and an old friend of June's, who plays the fairy godmother role to the hilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Notes** : Expressions of homophobia, transphobia, past reference to a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. 
> 
> Written for Round 2 of the White Collar Reverse Big Bang, for the artwork created by Kaylashay.
> 
> Many thanks to my utterly heroic beta reader, Sinfulslasher, and my alpha(dog) cheerleaders, Miri_Thompson and Theatregirl7299, whose endless encouragement helped me at every steop of the way.

  


Tonight was a night that he should have been on his way home. After the week he'd had, he deserved an evening with no activity more strenuous than propping his feet up on an ottoman before a fire crackling in the hearth, with a glass of wine or a bottle of beer close at hand. Tonight, there'd be no music playing in the background – he deserved a little break from that. But he'd made a promise and Peter Burke was a man who kept his promises, no matter how tired and worn out he was. 

Which was why, on a rainy Thursday night a little before ten, he was in a limo slowly making its way through traffic in the East Village instead of heading home to his penthouse condo overlooking Bryant Park.

Peter was scanning through some tedious paperwork and looked up just as the car turned onto Mercer Street.

"We're here, sir." The car came to a stop in front of his destination, _Ellington's_ , the nightclub owned by one of his oldest friends, June.

Peter tipped the limo driver and ran to the door, barely avoiding a soaking as the heavens opened up. The club's lobby was surprisingly crowded for a mid-week evening and he had to wait a few minutes before handing his sopping umbrella and raincoat to the coat checker. The man gave him the numbered tag and brushed his fingers across Peter's palm in an attempt to flirt.

Peter smiled and shook his head in a gentle rejection. Despite his pencil thin mustache and soul patch, the coat check guy looked a little too close to jailbait for his tastes. Peter preferred his men to be _men_.

_Ellington's_ was an old school nightclub with a stage and a six-piece jazz combo that performed nightly. The cocktails were basic, the menu non-existent. It was a place where people came, not to be seen, but to listen to good music. Clubs like _Ellington's_ were becoming a rarity in Manhattan these days, when the young and well-heeled wanted to be entertained by celebrity chefs and rock-star mixologists, not musicians and singers. 

June's late husband, Byron, had taken over the place from his father, who'd inherited it from his father. Three generations of Ellington men spent decades fighting with bigoted neighbors who didn't like the idea of a black man owning a club in the East Village. Byron, perhaps capitalizing on a surname shared with one of the truly great musicians of the twentieth century, did more than keep tradition alive. He made the place a hot spot for musicians who couldn't find any other place to perform in a city which seemed only interested in new sounds or ones that minted money. _Ellington's_ was the place for jazz and blues before they became hip again, singers-song writers were still welcome, and there was nothing that Byron - and later on his widow, June - loved more than to give the stage to up and coming artists who needed a break.

Peter stifled a yawn and exchanged pleasantries with Paul, who'd been managing the front of the house for over twenty years. As an old friend of the owners and a powerful member of the music industry, Paul didn't even consider asking him to pay the cover charge. He made his way through the milling crowd, looking for June and, at the same time, wishing he was home, relaxing. He'd just had a hellacious week, flying out to the West Coast on Monday, holding marathon sessions with a major record label. He'd felt like he was battling sharks with just a dull knife and his wits when the snot-nosed lawyers for the recording company tried to renegotiate terms after one of his clients imploded her career via social media. Peter hated damage control, but it was an inevitable by-product of his life. After four days of playing hardball, he managed to save Alex's contract, and got on a flight home. When the plane landed at JFK and he checked his messages, there was one from June reminding him of his promise to see her newest sensation perform tonight. 

And this was a promise he wanted to keep. Not only to hear the young singer that June said could be the hottest act since Diana Krall, but he wanted to catch up with his old friend, too. It had been at least six months since he'd seen June, and just because his life was like a roller coaster, that was no excuse. 

"Another five minutes and you'd have been late." June greeted him with outstretched hands and a warm smile.

"Sorry – just got back from L.A. I came right from the airport."

June peered into his face. "You do look exhausted."

"I am, but not too tired to come see you. It's been too long." Peter leaned over and kissed June's cheek. "And you look wonderful."

"Flatterer."

"No – just the truth. Without you, I'd be nothing."

"I'm not so sure of that." She took him into the heart of the club. "Do you want a drink?"

"I'm working on fumes, and unless you want my snores drowning out the dulcet tones of your newest prodigy, I'd best stick with tonic water."

June signaled a waiter and gave him Peter's order. "Come, I reserved a table for you. The show is about to start." 

Peter was grateful that the table that June led him to was towards the back, where the acoustics were best, but also where he could close his eyes and let the music wash over him. If he fell asleep, no one would be the wiser – unless he started to snore.

The server returned with his drink and June left to greet other guests. She was not only the club owner, but she was the voice and face of _Ellington's_ , too. For close to forty years, she'd been introducing the acts. Peter remembered Byron telling him that he'd fallen in love with her speaking voice before he'd even seen her face. 

The house lights dimmed and a single spot illuminated the stage. From behind the curtains, a clarinet and piano played the opening to Benny Goodman's "Limehouse Blues", which had been June's walk-on music for more than four decades. Watching from his seat, Peter thought she looked particularly good tonight. She teased the crowd, thanking them for braving the weather, and then broke into an impromptu rendition of "Stormy Weather." 

For a while, Peter had worried about her, living alone in that big mansion uptown, but a few years back, her godson had moved in and his presence seemed to give her new life. Peter had a vague recollection of the godson; most of his memories were of a boy with bright blue eyes and a mass of dark brown curls. June and Byron had been inordinately proud of him, treating him like he was their own flesh and blood, footing the bill for private school – the same one that June and Byron had attended, and Peter had, too. They'd also paid for an undergraduate education at Harvard. Peter guessed the godson was now repaying their kindness and generosity. Or maybe he was just mooching.

She finished the song, and Peter joined in the enthusiastic appreciation of the crowd.

"Tonight, we continue a great tradition at _Ellington's_ – 'New Artist Thursday' – and I don't need to remind you of all the great artists who got their start on a Thursday night like this. Our performer tonight is a unique talent, a voice that the words 'torch song' was made for. I give you, Nicole." June stepped to the side and the curtains slowly rose, revealing a column of liquid silver in the shape of a woman.

The house band played the opening strains of a classic melody, the clarinet filling in for the song's back-up voices. The column of silver cupped her hands around the mic and her voice filled the room.

__

I used to be lunatic from the gracious days  
I used to be woebegone and so restless nights  
My aching heart would bleed for you to see  
Oh but now... 

Nicole's voice soared, and the hair on the back of Peter's neck stood up; the music wrapped around him like a lover, enthralling him. He'd heard Annie Lennox perform _No More I Love Yous_ live nearly twenty years ago, but it hadn't moved him like this. The lyrics – without the adornment that the pop star had added – were simple and sad and at the same time, so hopeful.

Peter had become so enraptured by the singer and her voice that it was a shock when the audience burst into rapturous applause, breaking the spell.

Nicole's next piece wasn't a song he recognized, at least not right away. It was moody and dark and it made him want to weep from the heartbreak. It told a tale of someone, alone and lonely, seeking meaningful companionship but only finding surcease in pick-ups and one night stands. 

__

How do you do?  
Would you like to be friends?  
No, I just want a bed for the night  
Someone to tell me they care  
You can fake it, that's all right  
In the morning I won't be here

Peter found himself breathless, waiting on each note, each syllable, the rise and fall of the music's cadence. He'd been in the music business for almost a quarter-century and he'd never, ever, been this affected by a singer.

It was as if Nicole's voice was a magic spell, binding him to the seat and making him feel things he should never have felt. Not for a woman.

Peter's arousal was not only an embarrassment, it was appalling. He was fifty years old and for thirty of those years, he had a profound understanding of himself and his gayness. This reaction was inconceivable and he told himself that it was her talent, her voice, her exquisite musicianship that was doing this to him.

As the applause thundered and Nicole elegantly signaled her appreciation, Peter wondered if there was something called hetero-panic, because he was definitely panicking. And still, he couldn't bring himself to leave and put this feeling behind him, because Nicole had enough talent to be a superstar and he was too much of a businessman to walk away from an opportunity like this.

Maybe he'd take the coat check guy up on his offer and just fuck this feeling away.

Peter let Nicole's performance wash over him as he started building a plan to launch the singer into the stratosphere. In an era of pop stars with interchangeable voices and looks dictated by what was trending on Instagram, Nicole was going to stand out. Her voice was too deep and soulful for Top 40, and that was fine, because she wasn't Top 40 material. She was a hell of a lot better than the auto-tuned wonders that populated that genre. Thinking about it, Peter wondered if her selection of an Annie Lennox hit was good chance or deliberate, because he could see her as a performer in that vein, trading not on her sexuality, but on the power of her voice and her sheer physical presence.

As potent as her talent was, Peter knew he was going to have to work hard to make her the superstar he knew she could be. 

At least he didn't have to worry about getting her out of any management or representation contracts. Only unrepresented talent was allowed to perform at _Ellington's_ Thursday night shows. Over the years, Peter had cherry-picked the best of what June had offered, and while none of those talents had ended up with Grammys, they all had lucrative recording contracts and some even made gold records.

Nicole was not only going to continue his winning track record, she was going to run the board.

He listened to her perform Peggy Lee's _I Enjoy Being a Girl_ and was again blown away. It wasn't just the range and power of her voice, but the emotions she conveyed; for this particular song, flirtatious good humor and a happy sexiness poured out of her that had the crowd laughing. The song came to an end and Nicole blew the crowd a kiss and bowed as the curtain dropped. Peter couldn't believe the act was over and as he got to his feet, June took the stage.

"Don't go anywhere; Nicole will be back for a second set that you don't want to miss." June singled the orchestra to play something light as she, too, left the stage. 

Doing his best to ignore the lingering effects of his weird arousal, Peter wondered if he could get into the dressing rooms and talk with the singer before she started her second set. As he made his way through the milling audience, his cell phone buzzed.

The vibration was a very specific pattern, one that translated into Morse code for S-O-S. Texts from only two numbers had that ringtone assigned – his mother and Clinton Jones' emergency phone – and neither he couldn't ignore messages from.

He checked the text and it was bad.

_Julian Larsen arrested. He's at 20th precinct_

Peter sighed in disgust. Instead of going to sign a fabulous new talent, he was going to have to bail out an old has-been. He sent a reply.

_Be there in 20 mins. Tell J to keep his mouth shut_

Peter looked around the room and spotted June chatting with some guests and made her way over to her.

She smiled when she saw him. "Peter, tell me, what did you think of Nicole?"

"She's brilliant and I want to sign her."

"You need to stay for Nicole's second act."

He shook his head. "I can't – there's an emergency and I've got to go." He fished a business card out of his wallet and gave it to June. "Tell her to call me. But not until Monday – shit's going to hit the fan tonight and I probably won't resurface until then."

June frowned. "I can't give this to Nicole until you see the second act." She pushed the card back at him. 

Peter gritted his teeth and shoved the card back into his jacket. Sometimes June could be difficult and protective of the talents she was nurturing, and he'd learned to respect that. "Okay. When will she be back on stage here?"

"Not until the end of June."

"It's only the end of March," Peter growled. His cell buzzed again, the same S-O-S that he couldn't ignore. "Okay – I have to go, but if you can get her to give me a private performance of this mysterious second act, that would be terrific. She's got an incredible voice and stage presence and I can make her into a star."

June gave him an enigmatic smile and said, "I'll see what can be arranged."

"Thank you, June. You are, as always, splendid." He gave her a brief hug before making a dash to the coat check. The 20th Precinct was all the way uptown, on the West Side, and only luck would get him there within the promised twenty minutes. 

It was actually close to an hour before the cab dropped him off on 82nd Street. Clinton was sending texts, describing the evening's events in short bursts of one-hundred forty characters. He didn't want to call Peter, too concerned that he'd be overheard.

By the time Peter made his way past the front desk to the holding area, he had a pretty good picture of what had happened, and it was horrible.

To say the least.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

As June made her way through the corridor behind the stage to the dressing rooms, she snagged her hosiery on some ancient piece of audio equipment and muttered an unladylike curse. For thirty-five years she'd been complaining about the condition of the backstage area, that it was a fire hazard, but despite her complaints, she had done nothing about it. There were always more important things to deal with.

Like tonight's performance. 

She knocked on the dressing room door, right under the large gold star – which had long since lost its luster. The occupant called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me, June."

"Come in."

Neal was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The silver lamé dress, "Nicole's" trademark, was hanging in a garment bag, ready to go home. Neal had removed most of the makeup, but his lips were still a shade brighter than their usual color and the remnants of his alter ego's heavy makeup were smudged under his eyes.

"How did I do?" Neal sounded worried, which June thought was so utterly charming. The man had no clue how powerful a performer he was.

"You were fantastic. You know you brought the house down, again. The place was packed, like it was a Saturday night and I had a major headliner on stage." Neal blushed and June hugged him. "You need to be more confident in your talent, Neal."

"I'm just a history teacher who occasionally dresses up and sings torch songs at my godmother's club."

"You may be a history teacher and I may be your godmother, but there's no 'just' about it. You're brilliant – you have a stage presence like I haven't seen since Diana Ross was belting it out uptown with the Supremes."

"Now I know you're joking." But Neal was smiling.

"Okay, then how about Adele before she became a star?" June reached up and rubbed a bit of the smudged mascara off Neal's cheek.

"Okay, that's a little more plausible."

She leaned back against the dressing table. "Any chance I can persuade you to take the stage again before the end of June?"

Neal shook his head emphatically. "You know my schedule. I only perform when I have vacation. It's Spring Break now, and until the semester's over, I won't have any free time."

"What about Memorial Day weekend?"

"That's only a Monday holiday and the club is closed on Monday. I perform on Thursdays and need a whole week of rehearsals. I just can't take off in the middle of the day and come downtown."

"What about if you performed on that Saturday? You could rehearse the weekend before."

Neal looked at her, a quizzical expression on his face. "What's the urgency?"

She licked her lips. "Someone was here tonight."

Neal sucked in his breath. "Someone? Someone like a recording executive?"

"Not quite. Someone better. A talent agent who was very interested in signing ‘Nicole" to an agency contract. Someone who has big plans for her.”

“Her? Your someone better didn’t stay for the second act?” 

June lightly slapped Neal's shoulder. “No, he couldn’t. And don't get upset, but I refused to put him in contact with you until he sees the whole act.”

“Smart – this way he knows just what he’s getting.” Neal ran a hand through his hair and frowned at her. “But you know something, I’m not sure I even want to meet your friend. This –" He gestured around him. "- isn't supposed to be my life. "

"But it could be – and a lot more."

"It was a lark – you suggested my voice was more suited to a 1930s cabaret act and the next thing I know, I'm wearing a wig, falsies, silver lamé, and singing torch songs like I'm Karen Akers performing in _The Purple Rose of Cairo_ , except that I'm actually Julie Andrews in _Victor/Victoria_ , putting on a double act." Neal paused and took a deep breath. 

"And what's wrong with that?" June understood Neal's reservations, but she believed in him, she believed that there was more to Neal's life than teaching history and grading papers.

"Nothing, but I don't want to start dreaming of things I'll never have or I shouldn't want." Neal smiled ruefully. "I've been down that path, and I don't want you to have to pick me up again. Besides, I love my life, I love teaching. I don't want to give that up."

June understood Neal’s reluctance. He’d been hurt too many times in his short life and it would be a crime to see him hurt again. “Then let’s play it by ear. If you can’t do it in May, then my friend will just have to wait for June.” She chuckled. “That pun was unintentional.”

Neal kissed her cheek. “Of course it was. Shall we go home?”

“Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. It’s late and I’m sure you could use a good night’s sleep.”

Neal shrugged into his coat, hefted the messenger bag that held everything that transformed him into “Nicole” and took the garment bag from the hook on the door. “It’s a good thing tomorrow is still vacation and I don’t have to be at school. Though the new headmaster – head mistress – would probably have my nuts if she knew what I was doing tonight.”

“She’s that bad?” 

Neal grimaced. “Yeah.”

June left it at that as they made their way to the front of the club. The staff was efficient and all of the chairs were turned over on the tables, the floor vacuumed, and the glassware taken away for cleaning. Paul, the manager, held her coat.

“Your car is waiting, Miss June. I told Frederick to bring it around.”

“Thank you.” She let him help her into her coat. “I appreciate your forethought.”

“On a night like this, you shouldn’t have to stand at the curb and wait.” Paul turned to Neal. “You were exceptional tonight and I have to say that you are developing quite a following. This was the busiest Thursday we’ve had since you sang just after Christmas. The house was packed, and given the weather, that’s really saying something.”

Even in the dim light, June could see Neal flush with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you, Paul.” 

Paul held the door open, and as promised, Frederick was at the curb with June’s Bentley Continental. He insisted on taking Neal’s garment bag and putting it in the trunk before escorting them both, with an oversized umbrella, the great distance of ten steps from the edge of the club’s awning to the waiting car.

June watched Neal’s profile. She’d known him since he was an infant and she’d watched him grow into the man he was today. She’d witnessed his triumphs and she’d been there for him when tragedy struck, and she would never let him forget that no matter how badly he stumbled, she’d be there to help him get back on his feet. 

Neal noticed that she was staring. “What’s the matter? Did I miss some of the mascara?”

“No, just thinking about the past. And the future.” June reached out and took Neal’s hand. “After Byron died, I didn’t know how I was going to be able to go on. My daughters have lives of their own and I dreaded becoming a burden to them. So I bottled everything up and pretended I was okay. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come back into my life.”

Neal took her hand and kissed her fingers. “As much as I’ve helped you, you’ve helped me a thousand times more. I don’t know what I would have done without _you_. Been living on the streets, most likely.”

“No, Neal – never that. You would have been fine. You’re strong – a lot stronger than you think you are. You just have to remember to keep believing in yourself.” She leaned against Neal, and like a cat accustomed to affection, Neal leaned back against her. 

The rest of the trip uptown was spent in companionable silence, although around 42nd Street, June started humming “Lullaby of Broadway” and Neal joined in with the harmony line. It was an old game between them, one she’d played with Neal since he was seven. Even as a child, Neal was always humming or singing and he could magically find the harmony to her melody and then switch to the melody when she shifted to harmony. Byron had liked to joke that Neal was her perfect back-up singer, except when she was Neal's perfect back-up singer.

She'd been a little disappointed that Neal hadn't pursued a singing career, but he'd been given too many other gifts, and it would have been a crime for them to go to waste. By the time he'd graduated high school; Neal was fluent in six languages, had been regional champion in chess, was at the top of his class at Manhattan Prep and had taken enough AP classes to matriculate at Harvard as a sophomore. 

Everyone had expected great things from Neal. Not only was he intellectually brilliant, he was charming and people naturally flocked to him. Byron had told her that Neal would be the mayor of New York by the time he was thirty, governor of the state by thirty-six, and President by the time he was forty-five. Neal, for his part, had wanted to join the FBI.

But things hadn't worked out like that. Nothing like that at all.

June rested her head on Neal's shoulder and they hummed "Corner of the Sky". It might be very selfish of her, but she was glad that things hadn't worked out as anyone had planned. Maybe it was time for her to return the favor.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal rolled over and slapped at the alarm clock. This was the third time the snooze had gone off and he needed to get his ass in the shower within the next five minutes or he was going to be late. He hated Monday mornings, especially ones that came after a week's vacation. He was constitutionally a night owl, and despite years of getting up before six, he was never going to get accustomed to it.

He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, turning the shower on before doing his morning business. The water, just a few degrees shy of scalding, chased the last of the sleep out of his brain. By the time he had finished shaving and grooming, Neal was already running the day's routine through his head. The tenth grade classes in European Studies were about to embark on the causes of World War I. His Advanced Placement students were supposed to be turning in papers on culture and class in the Nineteen Century, and the kids in the Art History elective would be viewing an abundance of Nineteen Century nudes.

On the surface, it should be a good day. The kids would probably lack focus – many of them had travelled during the break and would spend valuable class time catching up with their friends. Neal wasn't a martinet in the classroom; he understood that a little leeway was important, at least for the tenth graders. The AP students needed to focus, especially with the exam coming up in about six weeks.

But underneath the surface was a disgusting mire of ideology-driven politics that was making Neal's tenure – and that of several dozen other teachers at Manhattan Prep – difficult. Two years ago, after making a huge financial donation to the school, Phillip Kramer, extreme right wing radio show host and homophobic gasbag, managed to get a seat on the school's Board of Governors. Although he was only one of seven members, he used his checkbook like a battering ram, promising to pay of all sorts of things the elite school needed, if only they'd see things his way.

The biggest casualty had been Reese Hughes, the school's veteran headmaster, who'd left at the Christmas break. The public word was that he'd taken a well-earned retirement, but the staff knew that Kramer had done his best to push him out because Hughes had laid the groundwork for the school's new equal rights policy – "Dignity for All" – a trailblazing set of rules and guidelines for ensuring proper treatment and accommodations for the school's transgender students.

Something that Kramer found highly offensive and morally wrong.

At first, Neal couldn't figure out why Phillip Kramer was at all interested in Manhattan Prep, a private school with a century old reputation as a training ground for the liberal elite. The school's guiding principles – fairness, justice, and tolerance – were antithetical to the man's own interests. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Kramer understood the importance of Manhattan Prep to the civic fabric of the city, and he was doing his best to change that. Manhattan Prep's grand liberal tradition was steadily eroding as the trustees and governors were falling under the spell of the vast piles of cash Kramer was promising to donate.

Last week, when he wasn't rehearsing, Neal had met with other like-minded teachers hoping to find some solution to the present crisis. But none of them could offer anything concrete, although after the third bottle of Burgundy, there was a unanimous vote to hire an assassin.

Neal shrugged into his suit coat and picked up his messenger bag. This morning it held his school-dedicated laptop, a pile of graded papers and a dozen other things a dedicated young teacher needed to get through the day. Nicole's music, the make-up, the falsies and false eyelashes were all stowed safely away in his closet.

It would be a disaster of epic proportions if the school – and its current administration – got wind of Neal's moonlighting gig. Hughes' replacement, Amanda Callaway, a southern belle who probably strangled small animals in her spare time, made it clear that the school would now have little tolerance for any behavior that deviated from "good moral standards". She was careful not to use religious terminology, but all of the code words were there. 

Although he only wore a dress in his act, it – coupled with his sexual orientation – would probably be enough to get him booted under the new regime. A part of him was tempted to let it happen. June had said she was willing to help pay the legal expenses of fighting the termination, but when Neal really thought about it, he didn't want to have to deal with it at all. There was too much darkness in his past that could be used as ammunition against him.

He headed downstairs and was greeted by the familiar and welcome scent of freshly brewed coffee. Marthé, June's housekeeper, was waiting for him with a travel mug and brown paper bag containing his lunch. Neal took the mug and thanked her gratefully, in Marthé's native French, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Marthé replied, "If you were straight, you could marry me and I'd bake chocolate croissants for you every morning."

Neal grinned and shifted to English. "You would have me fat?"

"I would have you anyway I could get you."

Neal kissed her cheek and she pinched his ass. "Maybe I should reconsider my sexual orientation, Marthé. You are a woman in her prime. And your croissants are incomparable."

She pushed the bag into his hands and pushed him out the door. "Ah, you stay gay, Mr. Neal – you couldn't keep up with me otherwise."

Neal left the house in a much lighter mood. They'd been having this conversation, or a variation of it, most weekday mornings for the last five years. He caught the express uptown subway that would take him within a few blocks of the school's Morningside Heights campus. Twenty minutes later, Neal was settled in his classroom, waiting for the first bell and the influx of less than eager students reporting to the first homeroom after vacation.

The morning went quickly as Neal kept his students engaged. He loved the pedagogic process, but more than that, he loved seeing the moments when his students understood the relevance of what he was teaching. He talked about the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and one of the kids brought up an article she'd read in the New York Times last Sunday about whether assassinations could change the course of history, which lead into a spirited discussion about whether it was morally right for a government to try to have the leader of an enemy country killed.

But in the back of his mind, Neal wondered if he was heading into dark territory. Before Callaway came on board, none of the teachers worried about censoring their lectures, but recently, two teachers had been written up for introducing inappropriate content into the classroom. One was Elizabeth Mitchell, a fellow history teacher, who had strongly criticized the FBI's civil rights record in the 1960s. Her lecture was deemed disrespectful and borderline subversive. El had just laughed in Callaway's face and reminded the new principal that she had been a twenty-year veteran of the FBI and was perfectly aware of the Bureau's record – both the good and the bad. 

Callaway had backed down and Neal was deeply relieved. Elizabeth Mitchell was one of his closest friends and he didn't know what he would have done if she quit.

The noon bell rang and his students fled for their lockers and the cafeteria. Neal retrieved his bag and headed for the staff lunch room. 

The room was packed with teachers and Neal greeted each of them as he passed, declining offers to join various groups when he spotted Elizabeth waving at him from a table in the back of the room.

Neal gave her a brief hug and sat down, noticing how relaxed she looked. "Well, you look like vacation agreed with you."

El laughed. "It most certainly did."

"But I have to say, for someone who just spent a week in Acapulco, it doesn't look like you saw much sun."

"That's because I didn't go to Mexico."

"Oh?" That surprised Neal. "Didn't you promise Dana that the two of you were going to spend a week getting drunk and picking up boys and celebrating her divorce?"

El frowned. "Dana and John decided to try to reconcile again."

"I thought everything was done except for signing the papers."

El shrugged. "I thought so, too. They sold their house; she started a new business and was getting ready for a new chapter in her life. But two days before we were supposed to leave, John showed up and told her that he'd put in his discharge papers. He had a few good job offers and maybe they should try again. So what could I do? Those two have been together since high school. Dana gave me back my money for the trip and John went with her instead."

"But you still went away?"

"Yup."

Neal couldn't help but notice Elizabeth's deep blush and how she toyed with a strand of hair. 

"El?"

She bit her lip and looked more like one of the teenagers who roamed the halls than a former FBI agent with a seriously badass reputation.

"Where did you go and more importantly, what did you do?"

"Can't really talk here." El glanced to her right, where Cynthia Watson was sitting. Watson was a new hire, hand-picked by Callaway and someone that Neal had instinctively disliked from the moment they met. Neal thought she was Callaway's eyes and ears and was quick to relay any information to the new principal that she thought could be damaging to the old guard.

"Ah. We'll meet for coffee after work?"

"Yup." El poked at her salad. "So, how was your vacation?"

This time it was Neal who flicked a glance over to Watson. "Did the usual. Spent time with June, caught up with my reading. Saw a new exhibit at the Met. Nothing exciting." Neal unwrapped the sandwich Marthé had made for him. It was tuna, but not like any tuna sandwich he'd ever carried to school as a kid. This had Italian tuna, dressed with good olive oil, lemon zest, green olives and cracked pepper, slices of hard-boiled egg and arugula on a freshly baked baguette. He offered El half.

El took it with a grateful smile and they ate in companionable silence. Another teacher, Taryn Van Der Sant, from the Art Department joined them, and even though Watson had left the room, no one felt any more comfortable talking about personal stuff. El left and Neal chatted with Taryn about the recent Matisse retrospective at the MOMA until the bell rang.

Neal's AP History class was his personal favorite. The class was technically an elective, but like all AP classes at Manhattan Prep, each student needed to be recommended by their prior year's history teacher. The class had a lot of writing requirements – at least four research papers a quarter, plus an orally presented book report each week. While there were always a few students who took the class as something to brag about, most of the students were here because they had a passion for the subject.

Two of his favorite students, Evan Leary and Chloe Woods, were already in the classroom, their heads together, whispering.

They both looked up when he dropped his bag on the desk and pulled out the last set of research essays. "Hope you had a good vacation."

Chloe started rhapsodizing about her trip to Paris and Neal tuned her out. He caught Evan's eye and bit his lip when the kid gave a little shrug. Apparently, he'd heard her travelogue before. Just before the bell rang, the rest of the students piled in.

Neal spent a few minutes lecturing on the birth of the modernist movement in the mid-Nineteenth century before calling on each of the students to lead a fifteen minute discussion on an artist, writer or composer, and how their works either affected or were affected by the political and social upheavals of the period.

Before Spring Break, a few students grumbled about the assignment; not that it was difficult, but that it was due the day after a long vacation. Neal had replied that everyone had a week before the vacation to work on it, so if they planned ahead, there was no need to do it during the break. He was certain that a few of the kids had scrambled over the weekend to finish the work, and some were clearly less prepared than others.

He saved Evan Leary for last of the class, knowing that he was probably the most prepared of all. The kid reminded him a little of himself at that age – fascinated by many things and excelling in almost everything. But there was a big difference between Neal Caffrey at sixteen and young Mr. Leary; he'd been popular, with a dozen friends and an active social life. Evan wasn't. Although he was generally respected by other students, his only close friend was Chloe Woods, who had her own host of issues.

But none of that really mattered at the moment. Evan led the class through a detailed discussion of Emile Zola, Paul Cezanne and Gustav Mahler. Neal thought some of the connections, particularly between the writer and the musician, were tenuous, but overall, it was an A-worthy effort.

Five minutes before the bell, he gently ended Evan's presentation by announcing that he'd graded and was returning the last set of papers. The school used an assignment portal and students submitted their work on-line, but Neal liked to print everything out and return the work by hand. He felt it created a better connection between him and his students.

"Good work, everyone." He put the papers face down on the students' desks and, according to classroom rules, waited for the bell to ring and left the classroom before letting the kids look at their grades.

Some people thought he was wasted as a teacher. June wanted him to sing professionally. His parents, before everything crashed so disastrously, had urged him to study law as a stepping stone to politics. He'd even dreamed of joining the FBI (something he'd never shared with Elizabeth). But those plans had been derailed – not by fate but bad choices that followed a shocking revelation. Now, at thirty-six, he was mostly happy. Despite the crap going on with the school administration, he loved teaching. He had friends he valued and knew valued him. He got the chance to perform whenever he wanted and made June very happy doing so.

Once, during the worst time of his life, a friend had asked him what he wanted out of life. He'd said that his needs were simple – meaningful work, enough money to live comfortably, and to be surrounded by people who cared about him. 

He had that and considered himself blessed.

Neal waited by the door for his students to leave. This, too, was part of his rules. Not that he would discuss grades, but it was his way of letting the kids know he was watching out for them. Not that they had anything to worry about. There were twelve students in his AP European History class and he marked each paper with some variation of A-, A or A+, and each of those grades were well-earned and fully justified.

The kids raced out of the classroom, and each one of them gave him some acknowledgement before melting into the general chaos. He had one more class before the end of the day, an elective in Art History. Two seniors, who weren't in his Advance Placement class, greeted him and Neal followed them back into the classroom.

Evan and Chloe were still there, and Evan – helpful nerd that he was – had the wide screen monitors on and the program with the day's subject loaded into the classroom computer. One of Cezanne's Tahitian beauties was vying for attention with an Ingres nude.

The forty-five minutes went as quickly as they always did when he had truly engaged students, but by the time the bell rang, Neal was as grateful as the kids that the school day – at least the teaching portion – was over.

Evan asked, "Do you want me to pack up the equipment, Mr. Caffrey?" 

"Nah, you and Chloe should get going."

Chloe smiled and tugged on Evan's sweater. "Come on, I want to go to Forbidden Planet – they're holding the new edition of _Abe Sapien_ for me, but only until the end of the day and I don't want to miss it. My dad gave me money – so we can have dinner. My treat."

Neal watched the two of them as they left the room, practically joined at the hip. Evan was a scholarship student and Chloe came from old New York money. On paper, their friendship was highly improbable, but in reality, it worked and worked well. Much like Elizabeth's friendship with a certain bald and bespectacled former chemistry teacher.

Which reminded Neal that he was supposed to meet El for coffee this afternoon. He pulled out his phone and sent her a text. _Still on for coffee?_

His phone chimed with El's response just as he'd finished shutting down the various electronics in the classroom and packing up his papers.

_Sure. See you there by 3:30._

Since it was already ten past three, Neal had to hustle. Daniel Pikah, one of the math teachers, waved at him. Neal waved back, but didn't stop. Dan was a good guy, but a little strange, and would talk your ear off for an hour if you let him.

Not that El would be annoyed if he was a few minutes late. Neal rushed to the coffee shop – one of those old fashioned places with cracked vinyl booths and mostly terrible drip coffee. He liked to meet El here because it was too un-hip to be considered cool by even the most ironic standards, no self-respecting student would be caught dead inside the place. They could talk freely, something impossible on school grounds these days.

El was sitting in their usual booth near the back, a troubled – almost sad – expression on her face.

"What's the matter?"

El turned the newspaper she was reading towards him. "Julian Larsen was arrested for murdering his wife."

Neal frowned. He had no idea who Julian Larsen was. "I'm sorry?"

"I forget that you're such a baby. Julian Larsen was the lead singer for Zen and the hottest thing in leather pants. I was soooo in love with him when I was sixteen."

Neal vaguely remembered that Zen was a rock band from the '80s. "British New Wave, right?"

"Right." El frowned again and took the paper back. "Says that he pushed his wife down the stairs. Drugs and alcohol were involved. I'd say 'so sad' but she was a real bitch – and half his age." 

Neal wanted to make a quip about how these May-December romances rarely work out, but Julian Larsen's situation struck a little too close to home.

El closed the newspaper and with a practiced flick of her wrist, tossed it onto the table next to their booth. "So, tell me – how did Thursday night really go? I was really sorry I missed your performance."

"It went fine. I opened with the Annie Lennox – "

" _The Gift_ or _No More I Love You's_?"

" _No More I Love You's_. June thinks the other song is just too sad for an opener."

"And did you do the Janis Ian?"

"Of course – but _The Pick Up_ , not _From Me to You_. The band at Ellington's couldn't get the bridges right. They're like little mazurkas and the three-part syncopation was driving them crazy."

El smiled at him but there was a bit of confusion in her eyes, and Neal laughed. "Sorry – I can get lost in the music."

"It's okay. What else did you sing?"

"I closed the first set with _I Enjoy Being a Girl_."

El burst out laughing, "You're evil, you know that? But what about the second set – that's the one that really counts."

Neal wasn't so sure he agreed with her, but was too much of a gentleman to argue. "I opened with _Feel Like Makin' Love_."

"Oooh, I love that song. I never know whether I want to dance or jump someone's bones when I hear it."

"El!" Elizabeth had a way of saying the most outrageous things and Neal considered himself fairly unshockable these days.

"What else?"

" _Fields of Gold_."

"Don't think I know that one."

"It's by Sting." Neal hummed a few bars and El nodded.

"Yeah, not one of my favorites."

"Not one of mine, either. And the crowd agreed. I'm cutting it."

"And what was your big finish?"

" _Wicked Game_."

"I bet you had the audience on their feet for that one."

Neal smiled at the memory. "Yeah, it was a good performance."

The waitress finally came over. "Sorry for the delay, folks, you want your usual?"

Both he and El nodded, and El added, "Could you bring a cup of tea, too? Someone else will be joining us."

The waitress left and Neal gave El a puzzled look. Afterschool coffee was a ritual between just the two of them.

"Moz is coming." There was something in her eyes that made Neal believe that her friendship with the former chemistry teacher had changed.

Neal gave El a sly grin. "So, where did you and Moz go for vacation?"

"How the hell did you know that I went with Mozzie?" 

"Lucky guess."

El shook her head. "You would have made an excellent FBI agent, you know that? All you'd have to do is smile and you get a confession."

Neal leaned back against the booth and sipped his coffee. "So, spill. Where did you and Moz go?"

"Colorado."

"That's not the answer I was expecting."

El was giving him the stare of death. "If you tell anyone – and I mean anyone – I'll make you wish you'd never been born."

Such threats were very uncharacteristic of her. "Why?"

"Because we went on a pot tour." Moz slipped into the booth next to Elizabeth. "Can you imagine what Callaway would do to her if she found out? Despite the fact that cannabis is legal in Colorado."

Neal laughed. "So you spent your week off getting stoned, eating vast quantities of junk food, and having wild sex."

Since Moz was fussing with his tea and blushing like an eighteenth century virgin, Elizabeth answered, "Yes, no, and yes. No junk food in this temple." She rubbed Mozzie's chest. "Just lots of high quality baked goods."

Neal snorted at the double-entendre. He had to ask, "Did you try the Rocky Mountain Oysters?"

Moz sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Neal. Oysters need ocean water currents to grow, and Colorado is about as far from the ocean as you can get."

Elizabeth whispered in Moz's ear and Neal enjoyed watching his friend turn even brighter red.

Moz recovered and said repressively, "No, we didn't eat any bovine testicles."

Neal let El and Moz do all the talking, content to listen to them talk about all the things they did (seven different types of weed, a few concerts) and all the things they didn't do (skiing, snowboarding, basically anything that meant being outdoors and getting cold). Their conversation washed over him and at the moment, the only thing that could have made him happier was if there was someone in the booth next to him and sharing his life.

It had been a long, long time since he craved companionship. Almost too long.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Thursday rolled around, Peter wished he had an ordinary job and an ordinary life. Maybe an accountant, a number cruncher who went home after an eight hour day, had a dog, a husband, a few kids and a big house in the suburbs.

Usually, he lived for the deal, flying out to the West Coast on a moment's notice to meet with industry executives or spending his evenings checking out new acts – looking for the latest hidden gem that was just waiting for the right push to get to the top of the charts.

But not this week. Since last Thursday night, he and his team had once again been fully engaged in damage control mode.

Julian Larsen, his oldest client, had been arrested for murdering his wife in a fit of jealous, drugged-out rage.

As an agent, he really wasn't responsible for anything more than getting Julian work, whether that was a part in a movie, a contract for a solo album and tour, or his latest venture, a reality television show. But his relationship with Julian was more than agent and client. Julian saw him more as a friend and those feelings were reciprocated. So, when the shit hit the fan, Peter Burke's number was the first one on Julian's speed dial.

Peter hadn’t answered his phone last Thursday, so the next person he’d called was Clinton Jones, Peter’s right hand at the agency. Clinton did what was needed – he called the best criminal defense attorney in the city and made sure that no one at the police station said a damn word to anyone.

Julian Larsen might not have been all that headline worthy as a rock star but he was as the star of a highly rated reality television show, and the public would eat up any scandal he was part of. 

Actually, the television show had been Julian's wife's idea. Chantal had been a supermodel, but now was on the downward slid to thirty, and desperate to keep some measure of fame. She'd been rather brutally rejected as a "Real Housewife" and latched onto the idea that the whole world would be interested in the day-to-day shenanigans of her and her bad-boy rock star husband, Julian Larsen, the former front man for the 1980s superband, Zen.

Julian hadn't been too keen on the idea – he thought he was too young, still too much of a rock star, to indulge in something that was the province of aging musicians too pathetically desperate to fade into obscurity. But Chantal wore him down – those were his exact words – and for the sake of marital peace, he begged Peter to get him some kind of television deal.

Which Peter had. For the last three years, Julian and Chantal’s marriage had been slowly breaking apart on camera, amid mutual accusations of drug use, alcoholism, and infidelity. Each week, the ratings climbed higher and higher as they metaphorically cut pieces out of each other in front of the dozens of cameras set up in their Upper East Side townhouse.

By the end of the first season, Julian had wanted out of the show, but had been persuaded to sign on for a second season. By the end of that year, he had wanted out of both the show and the marriage, but Chantal was clinging to both. Over lunch shortly after the second season had started filming, Julian had begged Peter to get him out of the contract and he’d hinted that Chantal was holding something over his head.

Peter had sipped his wine and asked, “Blackmail?” He wouldn't have been surprised if the answer was yes. Peter had known Julian for a long time and there were a lot of skeletons in the man's closet.

Julian had grimaced and signaled the waiter for a refill on his scotch. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Ah.” Peter wasn’t terribly sympathetic. He had told Julian that living a lie – especially for someone in the public eye – was dangerous.

“I’ll be ruined if she goes public.”

“Only in the short term, or maybe not at all. It’s a different world these days. You might find yourself surprised.”

“I doubt it. Not for men like me.”

Peter wasn't sure he agreed, but he had changed the subject. “You’ll take a big hit if I get the network to cancel.”

“I have reserves.”

“Not if Chantal sues you for divorce and tries to add the loss of income from the show to her claims. You’d be wiped out.”

The waiter had come back with Julian’s drink and he'd downed it in one gulp. “I’m tempted to let it all go, Peter. I can’t go on like this.”

But he had, even signing a contract for a third season, and the drama of the Larsens' marriage continued to escalate, as did the show's ratings. Every few months, Peter would have lunch with Julian and listen to him rant about the show, his music, and his wife. He was living in hell, but she seemed to think everything was perfect. 

And maybe for her, it was, until she went headfirst down a marble staircase during a blistering argument with her husband.

Ironically, the show that Julian despised was what saved him. The cameras had been recording – they _always_ were – and it was someone from the production team in the truck parked on the street that had called 9-1-1 to report the accident.

The police had taken one look at Mrs. Larsen, blonde, elegant and very much dead at the foot of the steps, and then looked at her husband, unkempt, bruises on his face, and very much drunk. They made assumptions based on the evidence at hand, and arrested Julian for Chantal's murder.

It had taken Sara Ellis, one of the best criminal attorneys in the city, three days to pry the video of Chantal Larsen's fall out of the production company. The recordings showed that yes, Julian and Chantal were furiously arguing, and yes, Julian had been drinking. But Julian hadn't laid a hand on his wife; she was the one who had gotten physical and taken a swing at her husband. Julian had let her hit him once and tried to walk away. Chantal, however, wasn't ready to give up and took another swipe at him. Unfortunately, she was standing at the top of the grand staircase, and when Julian dodged her swing, she lost her balance and fell. 

All the way down thirty-six marble-clad steps.

Faced with incontrovertible evidence that Chantal Larsen's death was an unfortunate accident, the district attorney dropped the charges. The media, though, was already primed by over two years of televised marital dysfunction and were on Julian like lions scenting blood. Every time he stepped out of his townhouse, they mobbed him. What had the Larsens been arguing about that Chantal, who was such a delicate and gentle beauty, wanted to hit her brutish husband? What dark and terrible secret was Julian Larsen hiding?

All this drama meant more work for Peter – recording executives to placate, concert promoters to soothe, interference to run with all sorts of media people. Of course, the television production company wanted a piece out of Julian's hide – they wanted to continue to film now that Julian was cleared. The latest episode of "Life in a Zen Garden" had broken all viewing records. 

Peter called on the cadre of entertainment lawyers he kept on retainer and had them go to work, getting Julian out of the contract. Julian, for his part, stopped production by ripping the cameras out of his house and taking off to someplace where no one could find him, not even telling Peter where he was going.

He had just stopped by Peter's office, a duffle bag over one shoulder and a guitar case in his hand. "You need me, send me an email. I'll get back to you eventually. You have my power of attorney and I trust you to deal with everything."

Peter gave Julian a brief hug. "Take care of yourself, friend."

"I will."

Peter watched the man leave and went over to the small bar area and contemplated pouring himself a stiff drink. It was a little past noon and he'd been awake for the better part of three days. Scotch wasn't a good idea right now. Nor was more coffee. 

The truth was, he needed sleep. Between spending last week salvaging Alex Hunter's recording contracts and this week with Julian problems, he deserved at least a month in Tahiti. But the closest he was going to come to that sort of rest and relaxation would be his two o'clock massage appointment and a ten minute post-massage power nap.

A knock interrupted his contemplation. 

"Boss?" It was Clinton and he had a folder in his hand.

"If you tell me it's bad news, or that another client is having a public meltdown, or someone died, or was murdered, or anything else that's going to put this firm back into damage control mode, I'm firing you."

"Then I guess you don't want my letter of resignation."

Peter stared at Clinton, unable to believe what his ears had just heard.

Clinton smiled. "Gotcha."

"That wasn't funny, Mr. Jones."

"It's April first, I could have been a lot crueler."

Peter huffed a sigh and shook his head. He hadn't even realized the date. "What do you have there?"

"Just the candidates for the Manhattan Prep summer internship. I've looked through them and pulled the top five. I don't know why you don't let the junior staff handle this."

Peter took the folder from Clinton. "We have this conversation every year. I do this myself because it's important to me. I was a scholarship student at that school and I got a big start with my own internship."

"So this is paying it back."

"Yeah." Peter felt strongly about his connection to the school and frequently donated to the scholarship fund. If he wasn't so damn busy all the time, he'd have taken the school up on their offer of a seat on the Board of Governors.

Clinton said, apropos of nothing, "You look like you could use a vacation. I know you thrive on the business, but I think it's taking its toll on you."

"Thanks. And it's not the business, but the constant crisis mode. Give me a forty-eight hour marathon negotiating session for the next big thing, and I'll be fine." Peter then remembered something. "Speaking of the next big thing, I didn't get the chance to tell you about the new act I caught at _Ellington's_."

"When was this?"

"The night that Julian was arrested. Your text came just as the first set ended."

"Singer?"

"Brilliant. Her name is Nicole and she has 'star' written all over her."

"What's she like?"

Peter thought for a moment, trying to find a way to describe the singer and not his rather unwelcome reaction to her. "Annie Lennox's range, Adele's power, and the stage presence of a young Diana Ross."

"Wow – that's quite a combination. When do we start work on her?"

"Have to sign her first." 

"And that's a problem?"

"June's being protective – won't even give me an introduction until I see Nicole's second act."

"That seems a little bizarre. What's the problem?"

Peter shook his head. "Don't know – but June has her ways and I've known her too long to try to get around them. If she says I have to wait, I wait."

"And when can we go see this all-important second act?"

Peter sighed. "That's the problem – Nicole won't be performing again until the end of June."

Clinton was as flabbergasted as Peter had been. "Seriously? You have to be kidding me."

"I'm not. That's what June told me and we don't have a choice."

"Maybe this Nicole's performing elsewhere."

"I doubt it – it was New Artist Thursday at _Ellington's_ , and June's pretty strict about acts she gives a boost to." Peter scrubbed his face, feeling every day of his fifty years. "You know, I'm going to give her a call – maybe I can get her to change her mind."

Clinton wished him luck and left as Peter tried - and failed - to stifle a yawn. Before he forgot, he called June. 

_"Peter, this is a surprise. I heard what happened with Julian."_

"Yeah, so you know it's been a week from hell."

_"But you got him off."_

"Yeah, he's out of jail and free as a bird, but I really had nothing to do with it. His lawyer was the one who forced the production company to release the video. I can't even imagine why they thought it would be a good idea to hold that back."

 _"You can't?"_ Peter could hear the laugher in June's voice.

"No, you're right. Of course I can. They thought they were sitting on a gold mine and would make a fortune airing it just at the right time. Or milking Julian for it. Anyway – that's all settled and Julian Larsen's out of my hair for the next few months."

_"Unless he gets himself in trouble again."_

"That's true. But like you always tell me; don't buy trouble when it's not on sale."

_"Yes, I do say that. So, Peter – why are you calling?"_

"Your prodigy, Nicole. I really want to get her under contract."

_"I know you do, but you know what I told you. You need to see her second act."_

"I don't understand why," Peter growled in frustration.

_"Because I said so. Besides, you wouldn't buy a house without looking in all the rooms, no matter how much you liked what you saw."_

"True. But you're making me wait until the end of June, June."

 _"That's when Nicole will be back on stage. And before you ask, Nicole's not performing anywhere else in the interim."_

"You're a cruel woman, June Ellington."

_"Tell you what, why don't you come for dinner tomorrow night. It's been too long since you've been here. Maybe you can use your persuasive talents to convince me to change my mind."_

Peter mentally reviewed his calendar. He was fairly certain he had nothing booked, not for work and not for pleasure. It was kind of pathetic to realize he hadn't had a date in almost a year. "I'd be delighted."

_"Good. You won't mind an early dinner, say six? I have to be at the club by eight, and that should give us time to talk."_

"No, not at all. Six is fine. I'll see you then." Peter hung up and tried to ignore the slight churning in his gut. June had an agenda. She wanted something from him, and if it meant getting access to Nicole, Peter was probably going to give it to her.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

"Are you free tonight, darling?"

To Neal's surprise, instead of Marthé, June was waiting for him in the front parlor on Friday morning. He kissed her cheek. "Yes – no, I have no plans."

"Good, I'm having a friend over and I'd love for you to join us."

"Friend?" Neal raised a hopeful eyebrow. Despite his urgings, June hadn't dated or seen anyone socially since Byron had died, claiming that the club provided her with all the companionship she needed. 

June shook her head, dashing Neal's hopes. "Peter's an old friend; I've known him for over thirty years. He used to work at the club."

Neal nodded, distracted by the busy day ahead. "Okay – I'll be there." It wasn't like he had any plans for the evening and could always make an early exit if the company was tedious.

He kissed June's cheek again, took his coffee and lunch and all but ran to the subway so he wouldn't be late. 

When Neal got home, Marthé was supervising a trio of maids cleaning the downstairs. She smiled at him and beckoned. "Mrs. June asked me to give you this." She handed him an envelope. 

Neal kissed Marthé's cheek as he took the envelope. "Merci, m'dear."

"Don't start something you're not prepared to finish, Mr. Neal. You're a bad gay man for trying to seduce poor Marthé."

Neal chuckled and shook his head. "If I was to turn straight, it would be for you and only for you."

She swatted his backside and laughed. "I live in hope, Mr. Neal."

Neal grinned and headed upstairs before reading the note. It was from June.

_My dear Neal -_

_Peter will be arriving around six, but I have some personal business to discuss with him. Please join us in the salon no later than six thirty, and wear the black suit – the one you know I love, you look so beautiful in it. It is Friday night and some traditions are worth remembering._

_Your loving Godmother,_

_June_   


Amused at the formality of June's note, Neal tucked it into a book he was reading. June – with three daughters and two granddaughters – was certainly conversant with modern technology and she could text and tweet with the best of them, but with Neal, she preferred to communicate in a more old-fashioned, and as she liked to say, more gracious style. Hence the handwritten note on embossed stationary instead of a terse, one-hundred forty character instruction. 

Friday night at the Ellington mansion was once a time for a certain level of formality. Although this was one of the busiest nights at the club, Byron and June always tried to have a traditional family dinner, a time for good manners and good company – musicians and luminaries from the music industry were often in attendance early in the evening, before a performance. Neal could remember, even as a little boy, coming over with his parents, wearing his best clothes. By the time he was ten, he was expected to contribute to the conversation, sharing something about school or something he'd learned. He'd come to love those Friday night dinners and missed them, so he certainly didn't mind June's request for formality. 

It was a little after four and that gave him time to shower and, before changing into the required suit, he'd have time to grade a handful of exams from his tenth grade European History class.

The ninety minutes he'd allotted passed quickly and the faint sound of Bugsy's yapping barks all the way from the first floor broke his concentration. It was a few minutes after six and just about time for him to get dressed.

Six-thirty sharp and wearing a black wool and silk Devore suit – one that Byron had ordered, but had never worn – plus a narrow sky-blue Armani tie that had been a gift from June last Christmas, he headed downstairs. He could hear June and her guest talking, probably about old times, how the city and the music scene used to be. Or so he assumed.

Neal went into the front parlor and thought, _Never assume, that makes an ass out of you and me_.

June greeted him with a warm smile and introduced him to her guest. Peter Burke.

A god in silver-gray Brioni.

After everything he'd been through, Neal thought he had no more vulnerabilities; that all of his fatal weaknesses has been exorcised.

How wrong he was.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter had vague memories of June's godson – he'd met him a few times at the Friday dinners June and Byron used to host. As an intern at _Ellington's_ , and then a few years later, when he'd worked as an assistant to booking manager during the summer, between semesters at Harvard, he'd become close with June and Byron and often been invited to dinner. The daughters of the house had flirted, and Peter had been gracious and gallant and made no bones about why he wasn't interested in them _that_ way. If he closed his eyes, he could recall a boy with dark curls and blue eyes. 

Peter couldn't remember ever actually speaking to the godson, but could remember being mildly impressed at how self-possessed and well-spoken the boy was; able to converse with the adults without any shyness or hesitation.

June had mentioned that Neal would be joining them for dinner tonight and before Peter could ask about him, she changed the subject. While she was adamant about not allowing him to meet Nicole until he saw her complete performance, there were a few other singers she thought he should consider representing – some performing at _Ellington's_ , others that were at other clubs or still waiting for any kind of break.

Peter took the names and promised to look at each act. The promise wasn't hollow politeness made out of respect. June had the vision to see nascent talent, but even better, she could also see when that talent had the drive and discipline to go beyond the small stage without falling apart. He trusted her – which was why he'd answered her summons to see Nicole last week and why he was willing to wait until he could see the entire act.

"There's plenty to keep you busy until June, when you'll be able to see Nicole."

Peter nodded and bit his tongue. It wasn't as if he didn't have a hundred other clients and a busy agency to manage.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs distracted him. _Ah, the godson_. Peter stood when June did and plastered a bland smile on his lips.

It was a good thing he did that because if he hadn't, his jaw would have hit the floor. Yes, the godson still had dark curls and blue eyes, but he couldn't match the gorgeous man in the sharply cut black with the pre-teen of his memories. 

He heard June make the introductions. "Neal, please come meet my old friend, Peter Burke. You may remember him from Friday night dinners when you were a boy."

Neal looked from June to him, head tilted and a searching expression in his eyes. When Neal's lips curved into a slight smile, Peter thought he'd died and gone to heaven, because only angels smiled that sweetly. And then he tried not to blush at the utter ridiculousness of that thought.

"I have to apologize, but I don't remember you at all." Neal held out his hand.

Peter managed to find his tongue and get his brain in gear. He shook Neal's hand and replied, "That's okay – it's been a while, and I don't think a dorky twenty-something would have made much of an impression on you when you're ten or eleven." And he wanted to dig a hole to climb into. _Nice way to point out the age difference._

June disagreed with that self-assessment. "You weren't dorky, Peter. You were a lovely young man." She turned to Neal. "Are you sure you don't remember Peter?"

Neal kept looking at him as if he was trying to remember. Finally, he shook his head. "Sorry, but no, I don't. Don't be offended, though – I don't remember meeting Ed Koch or Carly Simon or Woody Allen, either, even though June's told me that I was there when they came for dinner."

Peter replied, "That's okay. But I have to say I do remember you."

"You do?" Neal actually blushed. "I hope I behaved myself."

"You certainly did – I remember being impressed with your encyclopedic knowledge of the collected works of Carl Sagan – particularly _Broca's Brain_."

Neal's blush burned a little brighter. "I was a precocious little snot."

June interrupted. "Not in the least. You were a charming boy." She held out her hands to both men. "And now you have the pleasure of escorting me into the dining room."

The room was as beautiful as Peter remembered, set with elegant china and silver and crystal. A pair of maids in formal service attire stood ready.

June sat, quite appropriately, at the head of the table and kept the conversation flowing, even as the various courses of the meal arrived.

"You know, Peter, other than the obvious – you and Neal have a lot in common."

Before Peter could ask what June meant by obvious, Neal said, "What do you mean, 'other than the obvious'?"

June leaned back in her chair and delicately patted her lips with her napkin. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she said, "Well, you're both good looking, single, and lead busy and interesting lives."

There was a strange, almost relieved expression on Neal's face, but that was less interesting than the subtext of June's comment. _Was Neal gay?_ Peter mentally shook himself. Even if such a splendid creature as Neal Caffrey did bat for the same team that he did, there was no reason to think that he'd be interested in a man at least fifteen years his senior. And rather than wade into those waters, Peter picked up the first conversational gambit that June had tossed out. "Okay, but what else do we have in common?"

"Like you, Neal's a graduate of Manhattan Prep. And he teaches there now."

Peter knew that Neal had been a student at his alma mater. Byron had bragged about his godson almost as much as he had about his own flesh and blood. But he didn't know that Neal had returned as a teacher. "Oh? What do you teach?"

"European history."

Peter smiled. "One of my favorite subjects. Was Reese Hughes still teaching when you were there?"

Neal nodded. "Yes, he was until they made him Headmaster. I think he sometimes regretted taking that position. He once confided to me that as an administrator, he often felt sidelined from the process of education."

"I think I read in the alumni newsletter that he just retired."

Neal made a face. "Yeah, but it really wasn't his choice."

"Oh?"

"I guess you haven't been keeping up with all the happenings at Manhattan Prep."

Peter shook his head. "No, I wish I could be more involved with the school, but I'm traveling about two weeks out of every month. They've asked me to take a seat on the Board of Governors. I had to decline; that's almost a full time job and I wouldn't be doing the school any justice if I did."

Neal made a slight grimace. "I can understand that. What do you do?"

June answered, "Peter is a talent agent." 

Alarm bells started ringing in Neal's head and he wondered if Peter was the agent that had been at the club last week. Peter talked a little about the music business, sharing a few choice anecdotes and Neal relaxed. By the time the main course was served, he decided that Peter hadn't been the one who'd seen the first half of Nicole's act.

June kept a light hand on the conversational reins and the three of them talked about local politics, including the performance of the city's not-so-new mayor, Bill De Blasio, a relatively recent movie that both June and Peter had liked – _The Tree of Life_ – but Neal had found tedious in the extreme, and by the time dessert – crème brûlée – was served, the talk finally turned back to business – the decay of the local music scene.

June delicately licked her spoon and said, "I still can't believe that CBGB is gone."

Peter laughed. "It's been over nine years since it was shut down. And since when have you been a fan of punk rock?"

"It's not that I was a fan of the music played there, Peter. It's the loss of a tradition – a fixture in the New York scene, the history of the place. So much happened there. And now it's just another high-rent tenant selling overpriced clothing to yummy mummies who have no clue. That could happen to _Ellington's_ someday."

"June, no!" Neal echoed Peter's own sense of outrage. "You own the building, nothing's going to happen to force the club out."

"But time does march on and I won't be around forever." June smiled, as if to soften the trauma her words were causing. "My girls are doctors and lawyers and politicians, and that's what Byron and I wanted for them, but there will come a time – hopefully not soon – when the last song will be sung at _Ellington's_."

Peter understood what June was saying, but he wanted to deny it. It was impossible to contemplate a world without _Ellington's_.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to end the meal on such a maudlin note." June signaled to one of the maids to clear away the dishes and bring a selection of digestifs.

Peter wasn't particularly fond of sweet liquor and elected to have another cup of June's excellent Italian Roast. June had a small glass of Frangelico, but Neal seemed to share his love of coffee. 

June looked at Neal. "You and Peter have another point in common."

"Oh?"

"You're both Harvard grads."

Neal looked at him with respect. "Why am I not surprised. What did you study?"

"I was a math major and then went to Business School. You?"

"I had a stellar liberal arts education – majored in history, minored in literature and Renaissance studies, started a master's degree in early modern cultural history. Pretty much left me fit to either teach or serve terrible coffee at Starbucks while pretending to write the Great American Novel."

"Don't talk yourself down, Neal." June gently slapped at Neal's hand. "You had a marvelous education and you are putting it to splendid use." She turned to Peter. "Neal graduated magna cum laude in three years. He pretends to be a dilettante, but he's nothing shy of a genius."

Peter nodded. "Harvard in three years, that's impressive."

Neal muttered into his coffee, clearly embarrassed. "It was stupid." 

From the front parlor, they heard a clock start to chime and June stood up. "That, my dears, means it's time for me to go." Peter and Neal both got up, but she gestured for them to sit back down. "I have to get to the club, but the two of you should relax, get to know each other a little better. I think you'll find you really do have a lot in common."

At that, June swept out of the room, her carriage as regal as ever. In the somewhat awkward silence that followed, Peter gave Neal a wry smile. "Don't let me keep you. I can stay until June's on her way downtown."

Neal shook his head. "No, that's okay. I have no plans for the night – other than grading papers."

"Do you like teaching?"

"I do – very much. But I'm lucky. I don't know if I'd take as much pleasure in my work if I was at a public school, with hundreds of students and little opportunity to teach something other than what's on the latest state-mandated curriculum. Or if I could do little more than prepare students for the mass testing public school kids now have to go through."

Peter was curious about Neal – it was so clear he was a hell of a lot more than just another _very_ pretty face. "Did you always want to teach?"

"Yes and no. I was always inspired by history and wanted to immerse myself in it, which meant teaching at some level. But I had other interests too – and Byron and June encouraged me to explore them."

"What sort of interests?"

Neal stared into his coffee cup, as if the dregs of the cappuccino held all the answers in the universe. "A few things. For a while, I wanted to follow my father into law enforcement."

"Oh?"

"Yeah – my dad was a cop. He was … killed … in the line of duty when I was fourteen."

Peter wondered at the pause in Neal's explanation, but all he said was, "I'm sorry."

Neal shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. I thought I'd apply to the FBI – because there's nothing more ridiculous than a city cop with an Ivy League degree."

"What happened? Why didn't you?"

Neal shrugged again and made a face. "Decided a life of bad suits and worse coffee wasn't for me."

Peter knew that there was a hell of a lot that Neal wasn't saying, but this wasn't the time to press.

"I travelled for a few years after college. Went to Europe, got a different perspective on life."

That was something Peter could understand. He waited for Neal to add something about his travels, but instead, Neal shifted the conversation to him.

"What about you? How did you get into the talent business?"

"Byron Ellington."

"Really? You know, June never said how you met except that you worked at the club a long time ago. You must have been close to have been invited to Friday night dinners."

"Yeah, we were. You know about the senior internship program at Manhattan Prep, right?"

"Of course I do. I went through it, too."

"Well, Byron had offered one. It was the chance to see how _Ellington's_ operated. The problem was that you had to be seventeen. It was a nightclub, after all, which meant that very few students qualified. And the pool was even smaller because Byron limited it to scholarship students only."

Neal commented, "He'd been a scholarship student, himself."

"That's right, and he wanted to give kids who didn't have that 'damn silver spoon' a chance to get a leg up."

"Sounds like Byron."

"Anyways, I showed up at the club – this big, gangly white kid who couldn't hold a tune – and he took one look at me and said 'I guess you'll have to do'. The first week, I swept the floors, washed the glasses, and basically served as unpaid help."

"Yes, that definitely sounds like Byron."

"The second week, when he asked me what I thought of the place, I mentioned to him that the assistant manager was stealing tips and taking home half-empty bottles of whiskey."

"And I bet Byron just nodded and said, 'good work, kid – glad to see you've got eyes in your head'."

Peter laughed. "How the hell did you know that?"

"I didn't intern at the club, but I worked there during the summers. Byron knew all about Marty and his sticky fingers, but Marty was related to the Masuccis. Not the crime family, but the ones who were big in Latin music. If it meant getting some high class acts for the club – "

"It was worth putting up with some pilfering and giving the staff a little extra under the table every week."

Neal laughed. "Of course you'd know that."

"Yeah. After I told Byron about Marty, he let me work with him in the back office – watching him book acts, balance the booze bill, schmooze with the suppliers. I fell in love with the industry – especially working with the talent."

"And that's when you decided you were going to be a talent agent?"

It was Peter's turn to shrug. "I wasn't sure right then, but Byron and June gave me direction and a lot of help. I had a real job there during my first summer after high school and for the first two years of college. Byron was always introducing me to people, giving me opportunities that I probably would never have had otherwise. Between my junior and senior year, I had another internship – but this time at the William Morris Agency."

"Then B-school."

"Yup, and back to William Morris for a few more years, this time as an employee."

"Bet those days were fun." Neal smiled and Peter was enchanted with how his eyes crinkled.

"I worked hard, but I got to play hard, too."

"And it didn't matter that you were gay. Back in the nineties, the entertainment business was probably one of the few that were openly tolerant of our kind."

 _Of our kind…_ Peter blinked at that. "How did you ...? You're gay?"

"For a smart man, you are rather oblivious to the obvious. June's little comment about us both being single men? She was matchmaking all evening."

Peter felt the heat of embarrassment scald his cheeks. "I wasn't sure and I didn't want to assume." He could only imagine how ridiculous this must have seemed to Neal.

"Assume away, Peter."

Peter felt something flutter under his ribcage at the way Neal said his name – it was full of challenge. And promise. "I have a hard time believing that you're single."

"Why?"

"Look at yourself."

Neal grimaced. "I'd rather not."

"I don't mean that you're just a pretty face." _And a smoking hot body._

"Yes, you do."

Peter opened his mouth to object, but Neal cut him off. "It's okay – I know what most guys think when they look at me."

"What do you think they think?" Peter didn't like the bitterness in Neal's tone.

"Underwear model. Nothing more than good packaging and not a lot between the ears."

Peter tried not to sputter and as he recovered, he could see just that happening. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly – there's nothing to apologize for. I'm not Kelly LeBrock, begging people not to hate me because I'm beautiful."

"But you're a hell of a lot more than that. And I mean it."

Neal stared at him for a moment or two, as if to assess his sincerity. "Maybe you do."

Peter let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Before he could say anything, Neal took that breath away.

"I can't believe _you're_ single."

"Why?" 

"I'd have thought someone would have snapped you up ages ago. You don't seem like a man who'd ever want for companionship, even for a night."

Peter smiled to take the sting from his words. "Are you accusing me of having a little black book?"

Neal nodded slightly. "Yeah, I guess."

"And that I have a well-worn casting couch?" Peter was still smiling but felt a tiny bit of anger at the assumption.

Neal just gave him a level stare, and Peter finally understood. "The shoe just went on the other foot, didn't it?"

"And you don't like the way it feels."

"Not in the least."

"Do you want to start over again?"

Peter took a deep breath. "Do you?"

"We can play word games all night."

"I guess I'm wondering why you want to play those games."

Neal gave him a puzzled look.

"I mean – why are you bothering?"

Neal licked his lips. "Because I'm interested?"

"In me? Seriously?"

"Why are you so surprised?"

Peter now knew better than to remark about Neal's looks, and besides, he knew he wasn't a troll, himself. "I'm fifty."

"And I'm thirty-six. Not such a big gap."

"Neal, I was a math major and don't need a calculator to subtract thirty-six from fifty. Fourteen years – "

"Isn't a lot when you like someone."

There was that flutter again. "And you like me?"

Neal smiled, just that tiny – almost self-deprecating twist of his lips. "Yeah, I do."

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

_God, it makes me be so blue  
Every time I think about you  
All of the heat of my desire  
Smokin' like some crazy fire  
Come on here  
Look at me  
Where I stand  
Can't you see my heart burnin'  
In my hands?_  


The lyrics from the Annie Lennox song had been going through Neal's head for the entire evening, almost since the moment he had laid eyes on Peter Burke.

His alter ego, Nicole, had nothing to do with this carefully orchestrated setup. June had promised him that, and she wouldn't break that promise. No, she thought that Neal would like Peter Burke and that Peter would be good for him. In his head, he alternately cursed and thanked his godmother. Of all the people in his life, she saw him very clearly – all of his flaws and weaknesses, his desires and his dreams, and she'd do nothing to harm him.

Once, there was a man – on the surface not that dissimilar to Peter Burke –who oozed power and authority, who took him under his wing and taught him things, who made him what he was today. A coward, a fool, a weak creature who probably would have died on the streets if it wasn't for June's love and generosity. 

Neal carefully, deliberately packed away those memories. 

Peter Burke was nothing like the nightmare from his past. He was powerful, yes – with a power that came from earning it with his own hands and his own brain. He was also a bit goofy, a bit insecure and absolutely gorgeous.

At that thought, Neal felt a little guilty. He'd needled Peter about making assumptions about him because of his looks, but here he was, all but salivating over a mile-wide pair of shoulders and legs that went on forever.

The clock chimed again, bringing Neal back to the here and now. Peter was staring at him, and for the first time this evening, his expression was unreadable. "What's the matter?"

Peter shook his head and when he smiled, the enigmatic expression disappeared. "You like me. I like you. This feels a little high schoolish."

"Which makes me feel right at home."

Peter chuckled.

Neal let his tongue get ahead of his common sense. "I've got a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle upstairs – a gift from a grateful parent. If you'd like to extend the evening a bit, you could have a nightcap with me. That's definitely not high schoolish." _What the hell am I doing?_

Peter's expression changed again. "What if I said I'd prefer a beer?"

"I have that, too." Then he had to back-peddle. "Maybe."

Peter chuckled, "I'd like a nightcap, and whiskey will be fine."

"Really?" Neal felt inordinately pleased.

"Yeah. Even if it's just Johnnie Walker Red."

Neal stood and wanted to grab Peter's hand to drag him upstairs, before he changed his mind. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath. "Shall we?"

Peter got up, too. "Lead the way." 

As they headed upstairs, Neal kept telling himself that this was just an offer for an after-dinner drink, nothing more than that. But it felt like a hell of a lot more, if just because he hadn't had an after-dinner drink with anyone but June in a very long time. Yes, he had kind of crossed the Rubicon when he admitted that he liked Peter, after a rather passive-aggressive argument, but Peter Burke was clearly a gentleman and wouldn't follow him across the line.

Unless he was invited.

Neal opened the door and gestured for Peter to precede him, and when he followed, he got the shock of his life.

The loft was immaculate – not that he was a slob or careless with his possessions, but tonight, the room shone. Or rather, sparkled. There were candles lit, and the fairy lights that trimmed the French doors leading out to the terrace were turned on. Neal snuck a glance over to the sleeping area and was surprised to see his bed freshly made and the covers turned back in invitation. On the table was his precious bottle of rare scotch, plus a pair of crystal highball glasses and a silver ice bucket.

"Umm…" Neal bit his lip and turned to Peter, who seemed more bemused than anything. "I didn't plan this."

Peter chuckled. "I always thought that June had house elves working for her."

Neal relaxed. "I don't know what she was thinking."

"You mean you can't figure it out, Copernicus?"

Neal let out a startled laugh at that nickname. "Yeah. Look – there's no strings here. Just a nightcap."

"But you like me."

"I do."

Peter went over to the table and poured them each two fingers of scotch. He handed Neal his glass before taking a sip of his own. "I like you, too. I like smart, regardless of the package. And I'd like to get to know you better."

Neal took a sip and found some courage. "Me, too – I'd like to get to know you better, too." God, he sounded so gauche and awkward. He took another swallow and as the alcohol hit, he became a little reckless. "I haven't been with anyone for a while." He probably should have stuck to wine, which never affected him. Spirits had a way of loosening his tongue.

"Me, neither." Peter stared at him over the rim of his glass. "I don't go for casual hookups."

"That's good." Neal stared at the amber liquor in his glass and muttered, "Just so you know, when I say 'by a while', I mean years."

Peter seemed taken aback by that.

Neal thought he might as well come clean now – before things got too deep. "Before I moved back here, I wasn't in a good relationship – at least for me. I'm not – " Neal sighed and decided to make a reasonably full confession. "I'm not a very strong person, and I let Vincent take advantage of that. I let him put me into a hole." Neal took another swallow of whiskey. "Literally and metaphorically. It took me a long time to get my life back together."

He watched Peter's expression and was shocked at the rage he saw there. A little sick at heart, Neal tried to paper over his ill-timed confession. "But I'm clean – no lasting physical damage, if you know what I mean. And I don't get involved in anything I don't think I can handle. Which is why it's been a long time." And then he realized just what he revealed. "Look, it's okay. If you want to go, I understand."

The anger that had burned so brightly in Peter's eyes seemed a little muted now, softened by something that Neal hoped wasn't pity. "What do you mean by 'not a strong person'? You don't seem at all weak to me."

Neal felt the heat scald his cheeks. "I'm not like you – I'm not dominant." He ducked his head, unable to meet Peter's gaze any longer.

"And you equate submission with weakness? You think because you're not dominant, you're weak?"

Neal swallowed and nodded. 

"You seriously believe that?" Peter carefully put his glass on the table and Neal was surprised to see the man's hand shake.

"Yes. That's what Vincent told me. That's why I became – " Neal clamped his lips shut, there were still some things he couldn't reveal. Not now, maybe not ever. How did this moment turn into such a disaster? He put down his own glass and stared at his hands.

Peter stepped into his space and touched him – first lightly resting a hand on his shoulder, and then cupping his cheek. "Submission is not weakness, and this Vincent – whoever he is – is one fucked up bastard to make you believe that."

Neal stepped away. Peter's closeness was an intoxicant far more powerful than the whiskey he had just drunk. "You don't think I know that – intellectually. But … " He shook his head, unable to complete the thought. "I'm a mess, and you're probably better off going home and writing off the second half of this evening."

However, Peter didn't agree with him. "You know, downstairs – when we were sparring – I thought you were beautiful and sharp and way out of my league. I thought you were toying with me, but I liked the idea of a challenge."

"And now, I've just shown you what a broken mess I am. We've known each other, what – three hours?"

"You're not a mess. Neal. You're human, and at this moment, you're a hell of a lot more appealing than the glossy son of a bitch who played word games with me in the dining room."

Neal looked at Peter, not quite believing what he'd just heard. But he had to believe the sincerity he saw in Peter's eyes. "I still like you, Peter Burke."

Peter laughed, and the sound was like an aphrodisiac. "And I still like you, too, Neal Caffrey. I like you a lot."

Neal swallowed his fear, his embarrassment, his anxiety, and did something he might end up regretting.

He kissed Peter Burke.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter wouldn't have classified the second half of the evening as surreal. More like revelatory. 

He hadn't lied when he said he liked Neal, but downstairs, at the dinner table, he thought him a bit prickly. And a bit self-dramatic, too – especially with that comment about other men classifying him as nothing more than an underwear model because of his extraordinary good looks. But despite the prickliness, the drama, he liked him. Neal Caffrey had the one quality that was his own fatal weakness – he was smart. It was not just his intellectual brilliance – anyone who did Harvard in three years had to have that. It was that Neal was sharp and witty, with a mind that didn't back down from a challenge.

The invitation for a nightcap was a little surprising, and Peter more than half-hoped it was a prelude to a more intimate encounter. It had been years since he enjoyed casual hookups, and he hadn't had time for anything even semi-serious. Which meant he'd gone without since David Siegel, good friend and occasional fuck-buddy, had moved to London six months ago. At fifty, he'd never had a long-term relationship and he'd never felt the lack.

As he followed Neal upstairs, Peter realized that he wouldn't mind investing some time and effort in Neal Caffrey. They had – despite the age difference – a lot in common, as June had so eagerly pointed out. Neal had his own life and a busy schedule, and wouldn't be put out if he wasn't the center of Peter's universe. That was one of the primary reasons why he'd shied away from the dating scene. Relationships required work, and Peter didn't mind the work, but even the smartest of men developed expectations. Maybe Neal, knowing the music business and having his own busy life, wouldn't be disappointed by Peter's more than occasional lack of attention.

But still, he probably should have politely excused himself when Neal dropped his bombshell. 

Men with baggage were worse than men with expectations. If Peter had been looking for a partner – even a temporary good time type of guy, he'd be searching for a man who could hold his own, who didn't cling, who didn't _need_. A man who was his emotional equal, which was why – no matter how attractive the package – he had always shied away from the walking wounded. 

But for some reason, he didn't leave. He liked Neal Caffrey – the sharp-edge version from downstairs and this softer, less confident version who looked at him like he was the lone Christmas present under the tree and he couldn't wait to unwrap him.

It wasn't ego – or just ego, since there was something intensely powerful about being the focus of this man's interest, and yes – desire. But he was still surprised when Neal – after confessing to a disastrous relationship, after taking the blame for something that had certainly been abusive, kissed him. 

Neal was gentle, tentative, almost unsure when he brushed his lips against his. At first it was as if he was being kissed by a butterfly. Peter didn't move, letting Neal control the moment. That was the right thing to do; Neal gained confidence and deepened their kiss. It took all of Peter's willpower not to take over.

He tasted like the coffee they had drunk downstairs and the good whiskey they'd had up here. He tasted sweet, too – like a memory of the dessert they'd eaten. Neal kissed him and Peter thought he could become addicted to this taste, but that didn't frighten him. There was something about Neal Caffrey that called to him, that seemed to fill a part of him he hadn't realized was so aching and empty.

The kiss was as close to perfection as he'd ever experienced, and when he cupped his hands to Neal's cheeks, he could feel the other man's pulse racing. Keeping it gentle, letting Neal control the moment was so damn difficult. As desire swamped his senses, Peter wanted to overwhelm him, to take and take until he had consumed every breath, every atom, the very essence of the man. He wanted to glut himself on Neal Caffrey and leave them both wanting for more.

But he kept those needs under tight control, just holding Neal's face as gently as possible, when he wanted to strip that beautiful suit off him and make him beg for everything Peter wanted to give him.

Neal, for his part, seemed to relish the gentleness. He explored Peter's mouth, tasting him and humming his pleasure. Just as Peter's hands were cupped around Neal's face, Neal's fingers were combing through Peter's hair, his nails gently scraping against his scalp, sensations that went right to his groin. Peter felt his control erode and before it could disappear completely, he stepped back. Neal's moan of disappointment was an aphrodisiac Peter didn't need.

"What's the matter?" Neal's voice was slurred, his eyes almost black as the pupils swallowed those pale blue irises.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing."

"Then why did we stop?"

Peter took a deep breath. "Because you've just told me that you haven't been with anyone for a long time and we just met."

Neal blinked and licked his lips before smiling at him. The gesture wasn't so much seductive as humorous. "What kind of gay man are you?"

"Not a very good one, apparently."

A shadow crossed Neal's face. "Is it because of what I told you, about what happened to me?"

Neal didn't say the words, but Peter could all but hear him calling himself damaged goods. "No – not that, not at all. I didn't come prepared."

"If that's all you're worried about, I have condoms and lube."

Peter blinked, not expecting to hear that from a man who said he hadn't been with anyone for years. 

Neal explained with a casual shrug and a knowing smirk. "I don't think June would particularly like to find my favorite butt plug in her dishwasher, so I always use a rubber. It makes clean up a lot easier."

The image of June, elegant and refined, discovering a big fake penis in her kitchen was almost too much to bear and Peter burst out laughing.

Neal laughed, too. "Although I don't know the last time June actually went into the kitchen. Still, I wouldn't want to shock Marthé or any of the other staff."

"Marthé?"

"June's cook and housekeeper. She teases me all the time about going straight for her, but still – it wouldn't be polite."

Okay, the evening had definitely turned surreal.

"Now that I've effectively destroyed the mood… " Neal was still smiling.

Peter tried to explain. "It's a little more than having protection… "

"You don't put out on first dates? You’re right, you are a terrible gay man.” Neal’s smile extended into a grin. “We don't have to go all the way you know – some heavy petting, maybe we can hump each other raw?"

Peter had to laugh again. Underneath the teasing, Neal sounded so hopeful. "I like you." 

"I like you, too. We've already established that."

Peter shook his head at Neal's deliberate misunderstanding. "But I think I want something more than a casual encounter with you."

Neal ducked his head, but not before Peter could see his blush. "I think I'd like that, too."

"I've got a free weekend. How do you feel about bagpipes?"

"Huh?" Neal looked up at his deliberate non sequitur. "Bagpipes?"

"And kilts and flings and strathspeys, too."

The confused look on Neal's face was precious, but Peter explained. "It's the start of Tartan Week at Bryant Park. I live in the area and was planning on watching the festivities."

"You mean ogling men in skirts."

"That's an added benefit, but I do happen to have an unholy love for good Celtic music." He lifted a hand, forestalling Neal's question. "I can't explain it, but it's there. If you want to join me and listen to some of the best cat skinning this side of the Atlantic…"

"I suppose I could tell you all about the Forty-Five and how the British nearly destroyed the Highland culture while we listen to endless versions of Mason's Apron, the Marching O'Neills, and Amazing Grace. I'm not a history teacher for nothing."

"Then it's a date?" Peter couldn't believe he said that.

"Yeah, I guess it is. What time?"

"The music starts at one. Want to meet at the carousel around noon?"

"Sound perfect." Peter looked around and found a pen and paper. "My phone number. Call or text if you need to get in touch."

Neal took the piece of paper. "You're going to go now?"

"I should."

"You don't have to. We can still have something more than a casual encounter. Even if you do stay the night. I'll still respect you in the morning." 

"Neal – " The man was doing a very good job of destroying his will power.

"What, you're not the kind of guy who spends the night?"

Truthfully, he wasn't – but for Neal, he had the feeling he would. "I'll see you tomorrow." Peter leaned over and kissed Neal on the lips. It was brief, but he made sure there was a promise there, too.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal watched Peter leave, the door closing behind him with a gentle click. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. 

In a moment of mad recklessness, he had thrown himself at an almost perfect stranger.

No. Peter wasn’t really a stranger. But he was _perfect_.

His hands shaking, Neal picked up a glass – it could have been his, it could have been Peter’s – and finished the rest of the whiskey. The potent alcohol didn’t really do anything other than make him a bit dizzy.

This was so fucked up. But what else was new?


	3. Chapter 3

Peter sipped his third cup of coffee and gave a final look through the internship applications. He still had a half-hour to kill before meeting Neal at the park, and he might as well get some work done. He needed to focus on something other than the memory of kissing Neal. Last night, after he had gotten home from June's, the taste and scent of the man overwhelmed him and he'd done something he hadn't indulged in in quite a while – he had jerked off while thinking about a man he knew, rather than some faceless, anonymous paragon. Twice before falling asleep and, again, in the shower this morning.

Arousal began to bubble up in his veins, so he turned his attention back to the files in front of him.

Clinton had done a decent job of winnowing out the less than stellar candidates, although Peter still looked at those applications. He, himself, had cut the field down to two potential interns – one boy, Evan Leary, and one girl, Chloe Woods, not that gender mattered.

He dithered – both were equally qualified and both had excellent academic records. As he flipped through the packets, he re-read the recommendations. The girl had one from her Calculus teacher, her English teacher and a school administrator. The boy also had a letter of recommendation from an English teacher and a school administrator, and like the girl's, both letters were fairly standard. The boy also had a letter from his history teacher and without even thinking, Peter glanced at the signature line and chuckled. The letter was from Neal Caffrey.

The alarm on his phone started to play – Benny Goodman's _Take the A Train_ , and Peter got up. It was ten to twelve and time to go meet Neal.

Today was casual – a russet-colored cotton pull-over and tailored slacks, plus a light jacket. It was very early April and although it was supposed to be on the warmer side today, it would still be cool, if not cold in the shade. Peter debated about bringing a blanket so they could relax on Bryant Park's famous lawn, but decided against it. He could always come back for it if they needed it.

As he passed the hall mirror beside the front door, Peter checked himself out, from the front and the side. He wasn't vain and he worked hard to keep fit, but this was essentially a first date and he wanted to impress. Satisfied with his silhouette, he picked up his keys and left.

Five minutes later, he was outside and jogging across 40th Street and up the small staircase near the carousel. The weather gods were definitely smiling on the city today and the area was packed with families. Towards the center of the park, past the gaming area and the carousel, by the bandstand set up on the lawn, Peter could hear the sound of bagpipes and snare drums, something that always made him happy.

And then there was a sight to make him even happier. Neal Caffrey, in a dark green jacket, waving at him. Peter walked over to greet him, not caring that he probably had the goofiest of grins on his face.

"Hey."

"Hey there." Neal's eyes glowed, perhaps a reflection of his own happiness. 

Peter put a hand on his shoulder, then cupped the back of his neck, pulling Neal close for a kiss. They kept it brief and on the G side of a PG rating, but Neal was still delicious and the kiss was like champagne in his veins.

He could taste Neal's smile.

He couldn't think of anything to say that could be said with dozens of small humans running around, so Peter asked, "How are you?"

"Good, better. You?"

Peter echoed Neal's reply, "Good, and now – better." He ran a hand down Neal's arm and found his hand. He liked it – it was smooth, but he could feel the strength in the bone and sinew. Neal gave his hand a quick squeeze but didn't let go. They headed over to the plaza and the seating area behind the library's back steps and Peter couldn't remember ever walking hand in hand with anyone – at least not as an adult.

They found a pair of seats – the notoriously rickety chairs provided by the park conservancy – near the edge of the lawn and Neal leaned back, staring at the blue sky and the high drifting clouds. "This is nice, isn't it?"

"It is." Peter watched people – families with children, teenagers, hipsters and oldsters – as they spread out across the lawn. "I can remember when this was a place to be avoided at all costs."

"Needle Park, right?"

"Yeah. It was terrible."

"My dad used to tell me never to cut through here – he'd tan my ass if he ever found out I did. And of course I did – that challenge was too irresistible to pass up."

"You lived in Manhattan growing up?"

"Yeah – on East End Avenue. The city was different back then, but I was still a free-range kid. Were you a Manhattanite, too?"

"Nah – grew up in Brooklyn, near Fort Greene. My dad worked in construction after losing his job at the Navy Yard, and my mother was a bookkeeper."

"I remember fearing Brooklyn the way I feared nuclear war and zombies."

"Fort Greene was pretty grim back then. But the area's gotten a lot better now. My parents still have their house on DeKalb."

Their conversation was cut short as the first pipe band took the stage. Peter draped an arm over the back of Neal's chair and was rewarded when Neal leaned against him. 

Three bands played, and contrary to Neal's comments last night, there was only one rendition of Amazing Grace, but all three played highly enthusiastic versions of Scotland the Brave. As the last skirling pipe faded and the tartan-clad musicians marched off the stage, Peter looked over at Neal. His eyes were shining and happiness seemed to radiate from him. Without even thinking, Peter kissed him.

"Mmm, that's nice," Neal murmured against his lips.

Someone – it sounded like a kid – shouted, "Get a room" and Peter pulled back. 

Neal grinned, mischief in his eyes. "We could, you know."

Peter threw caution to the wind. "Or we could go back to my place."

"Is it far?"

"Not at all." 

Peter reached for Neal's hand again and led him out of the park and across 40th Street. He nodded to Carl, the doorman, and when they were waiting for the elevator, Neal commented, "You're right, not far at all."

"I bought this place in eighty-nine, while the neighborhood was still pretty awful."

"A good investment, though."

"I'd hoped so. Back then, the building was nice, but not great."

"And now, like your parents' home in Brooklyn, it's appreciated considerably."

"Yeah." Peter had rarely brought dates back to his apartment, if just to avoid the money conversation, but it didn't feel the least bit awkward with Neal. There was no envy in his tone, nothing avaricious or acquisitive, just a simple statement of fact. Amongst a certain class of New Yorkers, the escalating value of local real estate was a topic of conversation as banal as the weather. 

As he opened the door, Peter asked, "Do you want lunch? I probably should have asked before we came up here."

"Nah, I'm good. But maybe we can go out for dinner later? If you're not busy?" 

Peter replied, "This might be the first weekend in a month when I have nothing booked."

"I guess, as a talent agent, you're always in the scene – checking out new acts, seeing clients, working deals." Neal drifted through the apartment and Peter had to wonder what he thought of the place.

"Usually, but it's been a pretty hellacious month and I've delegated everything to my well-paid staff until Monday."

Neal drifted over to the window and watched the park from a tenth floor vantage point. "That bad?"

Peter joined him. "You've heard of Alex Hunter?"

"Yup – didn't she do a Justine Sacco a few weeks ago?"

"That she did. Practically had half the country screaming for her head on a pike over some stupid remark on Twitter."

"Your client?"

"Yeah."

"And don't tell me, so is Julian Larsen, right?"

Peter shouldn't have been surprised at Neal's perspicacity. "Yup."

"Makes me glad that I only have to deal with a hundred or so high school students and their dramas."

"And somehow, I wouldn't trade places with you for anything."

Neal threw his head back and laughed. "No, I don't suppose you would. So you know Julian Larsen?"

"Are you a fan?"

"No, but one of my fellow teachers is. She was heartbroken when he was arrested and inappropriately buoyant when the charges were dropped."

"Inappropriately?"

"Apparently she hated Larsen's wife and couldn't bring herself to feel guilty about her death. She's the only reason I know about Larsen. Eighties New Wave wasn't my thing. Have you known him long?"

Peter nodded. "He was my first client when I went out on my own."

Neal was impressed. "Seriously? How did that happen?"

Peter had to be careful. "We met by chance and when he started complaining about his agent – how the firm wasn't getting him any work - I convinced him to give me a shot."

"As easy as that?"

 _No, not really._ "Yup, as easy as that." Wanting to change the subject, Peter asked, "Sure I can't offer you anything? How about a cold drink, coffee?"

Neal turned around and leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, an all too tempting picture of masculine beauty. "How about I give you a blow job?"

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal couldn't believe what he said, but he refused to take it back. He licked his lips, feeling way too nervous. 

Peter licked his lips, too. Just a little peep of his tongue moistening those beautifully sculpted lips, which sent Neal's pulse racing even faster. "I like a man who knows what he wants."

"I want you. I couldn't stop thinking about you last night – and honestly, I didn't get much sleep."

"Why?" Was Peter's voice a little hoarse?

"I – " Neal knew his face was bright red. "I spent the night jerking off and thinking about your mouth."

"And I like a man who's honest."

"So?" Neal pretended a nonchalance he didn't feel. Peter smiled, there was such sweetness there that Neal felt something inside him melt into a puddle of goo. And other parts of him started to get hard. "I may be out of practice, though. Just warning you in advance."

"I think it's like riding a bicycle – you really don't ever forget how to suck cock. But we can take it slow, and I'll be happy to tell you what I like."

Neal blinked. "So, we're going to do this?"

"You offered a blow job." 

"Yes, I did."

Peter held out his hand. 

Neal took it, and let Peter lead him into the bedroom. Afternoon sunlight slipped between the blinds that closed out the outside world, illuminating a beautifully masculine room, decorated in cream and moss green, with touches of warm metallic tones. The wall over the bed was dominated by three large panels that could have come from the Asian wing at the Met.

"You have good taste, Peter."

"I have a good decorator." Peter stood behind him and pressed a kiss on his neck, right above his collar and just under his ear. Neal shivered as the touch sent signals to other erogenous zones in his body. His nipples tightened to near-painful points and his buttocks clenched as he could feel Peter's erection gently but insistently nudge at him.

Peter kissed him again and Neal shuddered with pleasure. Peter asked, his voice rough with desire, "You like that?"

"Of course I do."

"Is it as good as your fantasies?"

"Better."

Neal let Peter guide him deeper into the room and then stopped in front of a mirror. "I had some fantasies, too. Last night – and this morning." Peter's fingers toyed with the buttons on his shirt. "I thought about stripping you naked, touching you all over, toying with you, giving you so much pleasure you couldn't even say your own name."

Neal watched as Peter undressed him, running his fingers over his torso, just skimming his nipples, his abdomen, circling around his navel. His touch was gentle, but there was power there, too. And the restraint Peter displayed enraptured Neal as much as his caresses. He'd always been attracted to power, but he'd never experienced power like this.

"I need you." The words escaped his mouth without thought and as the sounds still hung in the air, Neal wondered if he'd just made a colossal mistake.

But Peter didn't pounce, he didn't take advantage of his admission, he didn't exploit the weakness he'd just admitted to. Peter just caught his gaze in the mirror and stared at him with utter delight. 

"That's a good thing, because I need you, too."

Peter turned him away from the mirror and captured his mouth – the restraint was gone, but he wasn't pushing himself on Neal, he was sharing his desire, his passion, and Neal drank every drop like it was the finest wine.

Somehow, he managed to free Peter from his sweater and he reveled in the expanse of smoothly muscled skin, gently biting his shoulder, reveling in the musky dampness of his armpit, before exploring the rest of a torso that would be right at home amongst the grand marbles on the Greco-Roman wing at the Met. Neal worshiped the taut, shallow cup of Peter's navel before pressing kisses along the lightly furred line that disappeared into his slacks.

His hand's shook as he struggled with Peter's fly, and he bit his lip and looked up. Peter wasn't annoyed, he was smiling – his faced fogged with desire and something that might even be affection.

"You okay?"

Neal nodded and concentrated on getting Peter out of his pants. The button finally gave and the zipper followed and Neal pulled the clothing down to Peter's knees before allowing himself to look at the perfection before his eyes. Large, darkly ruddy, with pre-come already leaking from the tip, it took all of his willpower not to try to swallow that cock whole, to take everything. Instead, he licked a messy strip from Peter's balls to the tip and was rewarded when Peter groaned his name. That sounded so good, he repeated it twice more.

Peter combed his fingers through his hair, gripping his head before ordering him, "Suck me, suck me."

Neal obliged, since it was what he wanted. He didn't bother going slowly anymore; opening his mouth, relaxing his throat, and breathing through his nose, he let Peter set the rhythm.

It was a delicious sensation, being so carefully used. Peter wasn't gentle, but he wasn't brutal. There was such consideration in his strength that Neal's tears were as much an emotional reaction as a physical response to the cock in his throat.

He actually whined when Peter pulled away and tried to chase his cock, desperately wanting to make Peter come in his mouth.

"I want to fuck you."

Neal looked up again and swallowed, relishing the slight ache in his throat. "We can do that, too."

Peter laughed, but the sound wasn't derisive. "I'm fifty, Neal."

"So?" He tried to reach for Peter's cock but Peter pulled him to his feet.

"So it means that I'm not so sure I'd be … up for another round so quickly." 

In the half light, Neal wasn't sure but it looked like Peter was blushing.

"I told you – I jerked off a couple of times last night. And this morning. If I knew you wanted sex instead of lunch, I would have followed the Boy Scouts' advice and saved myself."

Neal chuckled and was struck by something. Before this moment, sex and humor never coexisted at the same moment. "We have all weekend, right?"

Peter nodded. "That, we do." He stripped off his pants and underwear and Neal wondered how he could ever decide which feature of this man's body he loved the best – his broad chest and shoulders, his narrow waist, his perfectly proportioned cock, or those long, endless legs. And he hadn't even seen the man's ass yet.

And he still didn't get a chance as Peter pulled him towards the king-sized bed. Before he knew it, Peter had yanked the coverlet off the bed and pushed him onto the soft sheets. The mattress was firm and Neal had to smile.

"What?"

"Your bed – it's perfect for sex."

Peter laughed again, the sound ringing though the room. "Of all the things for you to say, that was the very last I expected to hear. But the truth is, I picked this mattress for that very reason."

Neal laughed, too, and his desire took another, deeper note. It wasn't just the levity, but the feeling of connection to this man. He should have been wary, but he couldn't bring himself to let anything take away from the happiness he felt.

He leaned back and let Peter finish undressing him. It seemed like all the light in the room was concentrated on Peter, gilding him like some Renaissance fresco. Then Peter was leaning over him and he could see nothing but those beautiful dark eyes.

But he could feel. Peter radiated heat; deep and steady, much like the man himself. And then there was another heat – his cock was like a heated iron bar against his belly, but Neal loved the burn. It wasn't that it had been so long – sex had never been like this and he never wanted it to be any other way ever again.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter rested his head against Neal's chest, listening to his heart pound, feeling his own heart's rapid beat slow to a more reasonable rate.

"Mmm".

"You okay?" Peter lifted his head and looked at Neal. His eyes were closed, but his expression was one of pure bliss.

"I never want to move. Even if I have to sleep on the wet spot."

Peter felt both utterly relaxed and oddly energized. "You don't have to go anywhere." He sat up and got out of the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"Just to clean up. I'll be right back."

"Okay, don't be long." 

Peter watched as Neal rolled over and wrapped his arms around a pillow, putting that beautiful ass and long legs on display. The fading afternoon light caught the glistening streaks of lube in the more shadowed recesses of his crack, and Peter felt his cock twitch.

Maybe he could have gone another round.

But there was always tonight. And tomorrow.

He went into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and as he held a washcloth under the tap, Peter looked at his face in the mirror. He almost didn't recognize himself. He looked … happy.

And he was. Neal wasn't some random hookup and while it was too early to say whether there was something lasting between them, Peter knew that today was the start of something he'd never experienced before. Something he never realized he wanted. Someone to share his life with. He'd attended dozens of commitment ceremonies and, more recently, weddings; he watched friends build nests and have hopes and dreams. Some had crashed, most had succeeded, but he never felt any longing for that life for himself.

Peter wrung out the washcloth and wiped himself down. He found a clean cloth for Neal, wet that one and grabbed a towel from the stack in the linen cabinet. 

The light was completely gone from the bedroom and Peter turned on one of the bedside reading lamps. Neal hadn't moved and his breathing was deep and even – he was sleeping.

Peter had always enjoyed this moment of intimacy. He might be dominant, but that didn't mean he had to be inconsiderate with his partners. It wasn't just aftercare after a scene, and to be honest, he hadn't done too many of those. His preferences were surprisingly vanilla.

As he cleaned Neal up with gentle strokes, Peter noticed something. Something that chilled him to the bone. Five round scars, two on one cheek, three on the other, each the size of a quarter. Burn scars.

He took a deep breath, and then another, as rage consumed him. Last night, Neal had been pretty blunt about his past - that someone had hurt him, had twisted his perceptions, his sense of self-worth. But it was also clear that Neal had worked hard to overcome that damage. To see such physical evidence of the cruelty inflicted on Neal was almost more than he could bear.

"Peter?" Neal turned and murmured his name. He opened his eyes and smiled, and Peter felt some of the rage slip away. 

"Hey there." He tossed the washcloth and towel in the direction of the bathroom.

"Come back to bed?"

"Of course." Peter grabbed the sheet and comforter from the floor, and as he climbed into bed, behind Neal, he covered them both. Neal settled himself against his chest and Peter draped an arm over his waist. 

As he listened to Neal breathe, as he relished the warmth and scent of the other man in his bed, Peter made a decision. If Neal wanted to tell him what happened, he would. When he was ready. Until then, Peter wouldn't ask.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

To say that Neal was dragging his ass when he made his way up the front steps of Manhattan Prep five minutes before homeroom bell on Monday morning would be an understatement. He'd spent the entire weekend with Peter and it had been … amazing. It didn't end until five AM this morning, when Peter reluctantly put him into a taxi to take him back to June's. On his way uptown, he seriously thought about calling in sick, if just to spend the day lounging on the terrace and replaying every moment of the past two days.

But he didn't. It was too close to the AP exams and he owed his students better than that.

"Mr. Caffrey, you're cutting it awfully close."

Neal stopped at the sound of that hated voice. Until recently, he had loved the sound of a Georgia peach accent, but not anymore. Amanda Callaway had ruined that for him.

He turned, pasted on his smile and said, "Close, but not yet late. If you'll excuse me?" He raised an eyebrow and waited for the bitch to dismiss him.

She nodded and Neal walked quickly to his classroom. 

The students in his tenth grade European studies class were well-prepared for a class discussion about the impact of World War I on colonial Asia and Neal could exercise a gentle hand, guiding them through some salient points, but letting the kids work their way through a spirited debate. He coasted through the rest of the morning classes. By the time the noon bell rang, Neal wished he smoked.

He took his usual table in the faculty lunchroom and when Elizabeth joined him, she got one look at his face and clapped her hands in delight.

"Looks like someone had a good time this weekend. Spill."

"It's that obvious?"

"Sweetie, you look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet. And enjoyed every moment of it."

Neal couldn't keep a tiny grin off his face. "I did."

"Like I said, spill."

He took a deep breath and licked his lips. Telling someone was going to make this very, very real. "I met someone."

"Clearly. Details, Caffrey. I need details. How? Where?"

"He's a friend of June's."

"Oh?"

Neal scrubbed his eyes. "She invited him over for dinner on Friday and we sort of clicked."

"Um, yeah. Like I said, clearly. Come on – tell me about him."

"His name is Peter…" Neal gave El the salient details.

"I guess he's in the music business, if he knows June."

This was where it was going to get sticky. "Yeah, he is. He's an agent."

El, if possible, got even more interested. "A talent agent?"

"No, an FBI agent." Which was a stupid thing to say, considering Elizabeth's prior career.

"Huh?"

Neal backtracked, "Yes, he's a talent agent. And before you say another word, this is not a discussion I want to have here. It's complicated."

El looked over her shoulder, and noticed Callaway's stooge, Watson, sitting at the table behind them. "Okay, coffee?"

"Coffee."

But El didn't let go, peppering him with questions about the rest of his weekend. 

"We stayed in on Saturday night."

"Oh?" 

"He cooked. We watched a movie – ever see 'Find Me Guilty' with Vin Diesel?"

"Don't deflect. First date, dinner and a movie at his place and I take it you didn't go home until Sunday morning."

Neal bit his lip and whispered. "No, not until _this_ morning."

Elizabeth just grinned and leaned back against her chair. "I'm so proud of you."

Neal ducked his head, embarrassed. El had tried to fix him up a few times, a few dates with some of her former colleagues, but neither attempt worked out well. It wasn't that the guys were wrong – just wrong for him. After the last date – that was the one where he'd been called an underwear model – Neal had told El not to fix him up anymore. If he wanted to date, he'd sign up for OKCupid or Match.com. She joked and told him to put Grindr on his iPhone and use it.

And of course, he ignored her advice.

Daniel Pikah asked if he could join them and Neal scooted over to make room. Pikah wasn't a bad guy – a little intense, a little … well, strange – but he managed to do a good job teaching a fairly impenetrable subject like Calculus and his students seemed to like him.

The conversation shifted and another teacher joined the table. Neal noticed that Watson was now talking with Callaway and then kept looking over at his direction. Callaway was frowning, which wasn't new. He wondered if Watson overheard him telling Elizabeth about his weekend – not that he said anything to be embarrassed about. He was gay and out and he had never hid his sexuality from his colleagues. But Callaway was Kramer's tool and Philip Kramer was possibly the homophobe with the biggest megaphone in America, now that Fred Phelps was dead.

Neal excused himself and as he left, he could feel Callaway's eyes following him. But he refused to worry. He had classes to teach.

Three hours later, he was ensconced in a booth in his regular coffee shop across from Elizabeth, fiddling with the sugar packets.

"Okay, what's going on?"

Suddenly paranoid, Neal stood up and looked into the booth behind him, making certain that no one he knew was sitting there. The booth, thankfully, was empty.

"Peter's seen Nicole perform."

"What? He knows you're …"

Neal shook his head, cutting Elizabeth off. "No – he only saw Nicole, not Nicholas. He left just as the first act ended. He told June he wants to represent 'Nicole', but June wouldn't even take his card until he saw the second act."

"June told you this?"

"No, she said nothing. Peter told me. Last night, he told me that he'd seen this incredible new act at _Ellington's_ and wanted to know if I'd seen it, too. He couldn't stop raving about 'her' and how aggravating it was that he'd have to wait until the end of June before 'she' was going to perform again." 

"You're going to tell Peter that you're 'Nicole', right?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't think I can."

"Why not?"

"Because – it's like … " He couldn't verbalize his feelings. 

"You're not Clark Kent, and 'Nicole' isn't really your alter ego."

"No, it's not that. He might think that everything that's happened was a set up."

"Was it?"

"No! Of course not. I'm not interested in having a stage career. I'm a teacher and it's what I love to do. Performing at _Ellington's_ is fun; it gets me out of my head, but it's not how I want to live my life."

"Then tell Peter that. Make it clear to him that you didn't know who he was when you met and until he said something, you had no idea that he'd heard you perform."

It was good advice, but Neal wasn't so sure he could take it. Peter might still feel betrayed or used. It might be better to just let things play out for a while. Say nothing and just let whatever happened, happen.

He wasn't going to take June up on her offer to perform at _Ellington's_ on the Saturday before Memorial Day. He'd stick with his original plan and wait until the school year ended. That would give him ten weeks. If it crashed and burned, then at least he'd have had ten weeks of real happiness. Neal kept telling himself.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter asked the nervous young man sitting in front of him, "What is it about the music industry that interests you, Evan?"

"I love how music ties people together, how universal it is. Music bridges class and culture and history. Did you know that Medieval songs, like the _Carmina Burana_ and _Llibre Vermell_ can sound just as relevant, as modern, as rap or hip-hop?" 

It was hard not to smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "No – I know Carl Orff's treatment of the original Carmina Burana texts, but I'm not familiar with – what did you call it? The _Libra Vermeil_ "?

"Not quite – _Llibre Vermell De Montserrat_ – the Red Book of Montserrat. It's a fourteenth century collection of devotional songs, but the music is kind of modern sounding." Evan reached down into his backpack. "I've been working on …" He bit his lip. "Sorry, this is an interview for an internship, not a pitch for my mixtape."

"But you know what a pitch is, and more impressive, given your age, you know what a mixtape is, too."

Evan looked up, hopeful that he hadn't blown his interview. He hadn't. Peter stood up and held out his hand. "The internship starts right after the school term ends. Will you be ready?"

Evan's smile was broad and bright and his joy warmed Peter's heart. This was why he offered the internship. "Yes, sir. I'll be ready." 

"Good – and be prepared to work hard."

"I will, sir! I most certainly will."

He escorted Evan to the door, introduced him to Clinton with the instructions to take him to HR and get everything ready for him to start in a few weeks. Settled back at his desk, Peter checked the time. It was nearly five, and Neal should be done with both classes and any after-class activities he supervised.

They'd talked every night this week, sometimes for hours. Last night, he had hung up, only to get a text from Neal. There were no words, just a photo. A selfie. Of his dick.

Which couldn't go unanswered. 

He sent the last selfie – of his come-splashed belly. Neal texted "g-nite" and that was the last one of the night. And right now, Peter couldn't wait for the evening – he needed to hear Neal's voice now.

Neal's phone rang three times and Peter couldn't stifle the feeling of disappointment. But just as the four ring ended, Neal picked up and he sounded breathless. "Peter?"

"Hey there. You okay?"

"Fine – I was downstairs … with June. Was heading back upstairs when I heard my phone ringing and realized I'd left it in my apartment, ran up to get it."

"Ah. Okay."

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah – just wanted to say hello. Hello."

"Hello to you, too. And we really are a pair of high school kids." 

Now Peter could hear the smile in Neal's voice. "Speaking of high school kids, I just hired one of yours."

"Huh?"

"Evan Leary – he applied for an internship at Burke Premier Talent."

"Ah, okay. I knew he was going for an internship, but I didn't ask which ones."

"You wrote a letter of recommendation for him."

"I did – that's right. It was a couple of months ago. I did a dozen of them. Was it my letter that got him the position?" 

"No – he's smart, and I like smart. But something you did say tipped the scales."

"Really?" 

"You said he was a scholarship student. When I offered the internship, I noted that scholarship students would be given a preference, but interestingly enough, Evan hadn't checked that box on his application."

"So you offered him the internship because he didn't tell you he was a scholarship student, or because he was a scholarship student?"

"A little of both, maybe. But enough about your students. How was your day?"

"Fine. Busy – the usual stuff. It's getting into crunch time. Last marking period, students freaking out over the upcoming AP exams, some political bullshit."

"Political?" That seemed unusual.

"Just some issues with the school administration. New headmaster, new rules."

Peter remembered when they were talking about Reese Hughes's "retirement" that Neal hadn't seemed too happy with his replacement. Not for the first time, he wished he had time to get involved with Manhattan Prep, get a look at what was really going on. "Okay. Do you have plans this weekend, Mr. Caffrey?"

"Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Burke?"

"Yes, I am. Well?"

There was a tiny hesitation and Peter felt his palms start to sweat in fear of rejection. 

But he had nothing to worry about when Neal said, "I'm free."

"I have a few obligations on Saturday night – some acts I need to look at. We could have an early supper, hit the clubs, then spend Sunday together. Would that work?"

"That would be perfect. I have papers I have to grade on Saturday, but I should be done around seven."

"The venues are downtown, so how about coming over around seven-thirty?"

"Sounds good. Can't wait."

Peter couldn't wait either and wouldn't have minded spending some time chatting with Neal, but Diana and Clinton were waiting for him in the conference room. He needed to get on a video call with some bigwigs at Sony and they weren't going to be happy if they were made to wait. "I've got to go – you'll be home tonight?"

"Where else would I be?"

"Good – Talk to you later."

Peter disconnected from the call, picked up the contract files he was negotiating, and tried to wipe the smile from his face. All week long, the Di and Clinton had been teasing him about his good mood after he made the mistake of admitting that he'd met someone. If he walked into this meeting grinning like a fool, he'd never hear the end of it.

At least, by the time he'd finished persuading the executives at Sony that his clients deserved a bigger percentage of on-line sales; he didn't feel the least bit like smiling. But he'd gotten what he wanted, which was less than he'd asked for – and naturally the men and women at the other end knew how the game was played. He'd set a precedent and it would make it a lot easier when the next round of negotiations came up.

Peter handed off the files to Clinton, who doubled as the firm's lawyer, to memorialize the contract changes, gave Diana her share of work to do, and decided to make a relatively early night of it. Staying up until two AM sexting with Neal had taken its toll.

And he had a feeling that tonight might just be spent in a similar fashion.


	4. Chapter 4

Although it was Friday, it wasn't the thirteenth, but the day seemed cursed. No, not _seemed_. The day _was_ cursed. First Neal overslept – which was his own fault. Talking and sexting with Peter until four AM wasn't exactly a mistake, but it wasn't really the wise thing to do when he had to get up two hours later.

Neal couldn't forgo a shower, which meant he missed the express train, and the local was jammed. A less than smooth stop at 128th Street resulted in an elbow in his kidneys and half a cup of someone else's coffee spilled across his back. At least he was wearing a raincoat, which saved his wardrobe.

But he'd forgotten his umbrella, and while the rain washed away the bad coffee, he arrived at the school with a soaking wet head. At least it was early enough for him to dash into his office and dry off with the towel he kept in the gym bag he'd stashed there.

Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was because it was Friday, but his students were restless and unfocused. No one in his first European Studies class was prepared for discussion and even when Neal threatened them with a pop quiz, they didn't settle down.

The second and third classes of the morning was a little better, but only marginally so. By the time the bell rang, Neal just dismissed everyone with a wave of his hand, forgoing his usual door-side ritual. His temper was uncertain and it was best not to engage with the kids in this mood. He hoped he'd be in a better frame of mind by the time lunch ended.

But what happened next was so far beyond the realm of petty annoyance and spring fever that Neal still couldn't wrap his brain around it.

He was caught up in a crowd of students – among them, Evan Leary and Chloe Woods – when he spotted Amanda Callaway, carrying, of all things, a bullhorn and a small step ladder.

Callaway climbed to the top step, turned on the bullhorn and spoke. "Charles Woods!"

Neal's heart sank.

Everyone in the hallway stopped moving, but no one seemed to understand what was going on. Neal heard a few of the kids mutter, "Who's Charles Woods?"

"Charles Woods. Stop walking and face me."

Evan grabbed Chloe by the wrist and tried to pull her away, but Chloe turned towards Callaway. Neal could read the fear on her face. But there was courage, too.

"I am not Charles Woods."

"Yes, you are, that's the name on your school records."

"My name was legally changed to Chloe last summer, when I turned sixteen. Your records are out of date." Chloe stared at Callaway.

"The school wasn't notified." 

Neal watched the interchange in fascinated horror. So did everyone else; even kids and teachers already in their classrooms had stepped out into the hallway. Callaway was still using the bullhorn.

"I hand-delivered copies to the records office, I suggest you take this up with them." Chloe turned to leave, but Callaway wasn't finished with her.

"You are not excused, Mr. Woods."

"It's _Ms._ Woods, ma'am."

"No, it's Mr. Woods. You are a boy, despite what you choose to call yourself."

"No, I am not." Neal wanted to applaud when Chloe stuck her chin out and threw back her shoulders.

"Yes, you are – you've got a penis. That makes you a boy, despite whatever sickness is in your head." The words rang through the hallways, but as the echoes from Callaway's augmented voice faded, the hallway was dead quiet. No one said a word, as if they were all frozen in shock.

Chloe stood there, and Neal could see her fighting the tears. She was icy pale behind the blusher and bright lipstick she used. 

Neal knew what it was like to be a victim – to be the focus of someone else's need to show their dominance through cruelty, and he was not going to stand by and let anyone do that again. Especially not to a student.

"Principal Callaway, you are out of line." He went up to her and yanked the bullhorn out of her hand. "What you have just done is beyond my comprehension – no educator should ever deliberately humiliate a student. And at Manhattan Prep, we do not equate gender with genitals. All students, however they chose to identify, are to be treated with the same respect and dignity accorded to every other human being. And to accuse a child of mental illness where none exists? How dare you? How _dare_ you?"

Callaway stepped down from her perch and grabbed the bullhorn back from him, but she didn't use it. "For your information, Reese Hughes' precious 'Dignity for All' policy is about to be rescinded. The Board of Governors will be voting on it next month." Callaway marched over to Chloe and wagged a finger in her face. "You, Mr. Woods, will report to classes in the uniform appropriate for your grade and your sex. If you show up in a skirt, you will be expelled. If you use the girls' room, you will be expelled."

Neal stepped between Chloe and Callaway. "No, she will not. Even if – as you say – the 'Dignity for All' policy is up for repeal by the Board, until that happens, it is still in effect. Ms. Woods will continue to dress and use school facilities in accordance with that policy until it is formally rescinded. Any attempt to prevent her from doing so, any attempt to discipline her for doing so, is going to open you – and Manhattan Prep – up to a major lawsuit. And a mass revolt."

Neal turned to Chloe. "Are you okay?"

She whispered, "Thank you, Mr. Caffrey."

"Can you make it through the day or do you want to go home?"

She peered around him, staring at Callaway. "I think I can handle the rest of the day."

Neal nodded. "If you need anything, come find me, okay?"

"Okay, I will."

The bell rang, the sound piercing in the still-shocked silence. Chloe and Evan headed off to the student cafeteria, the rest of the students and teachers jolted into action – either going to class or going to lunch. 

Neal didn't move as the bodies flowed around him.

"You've made a big mistake, Mr. Caffrey. You don't want to take me on. Not if you want to keep your job."

Neal turned around. "Are you threatening me, Ms. Callaway?"

"You may be a popular teacher – but even popular teachers have skeletons in the closet. I don't think you'd like yours to see the light of day."

Neal didn't blink. Callaway had to be bluffing. What Vincent had done to him happened in Europe, and there was no way she could possibly know about "Nicole" – which barely rose to the level of an embarrassment, let alone a "skeleton".

"Watch yourself, Mr. Caffrey. I make a powerful enemy."

Callaway marched away. Instead of heading to the teacher's lunchroom, Neal went back to his classroom. He'd get some peace and quiet there.

Except he didn't. 

Fifteen minutes after he shut the door behind him and settled down at his desk, someone knocked. Worried that it was Chloe and that she needed him, he got up and opened the door. Only to find the entire Manhattan Prep track team looking at him hopefully. The team captain, Mitch Lewis, had been his student last year. History hadn't been his strong suit, but Neal liked him.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Lewis?"

"Can we come in, sir?"

Neal stepped back and gestured for them to enter. A dozen or so boys crowded through the door. Mitch spoke, "We saw what Principal Callaway did."

Neal wondered where Mitch was heading; the boy seemed nervous. 

"I – we – we're really glad that you stood up for Chloe."

Neal breathed a little sigh of relief, but he didn't want this to be about him. "I was only doing what I thought was right."

"I should have said something."

Someone else – Neal didn't know all the kids who were with Mitch, echoed that sentiment and said, "I should have said something, too."

Mitch rubbed the back of his neck. "My older brother is like Chloe – only my folks really don't understand him. Her." Mitch shook his head at the gender-pronoun confusion. "And she had a really hard time."

"What happened to her?" Neal was afraid he was going to hear something terrible.

"She ran away. She's in San Francisco now, she works at a law firm and she's saving up for surgery, but she went through a lot of rough stuff. My folks are trying to wrap their heads around her, but it's really difficult for them. I don't care – Rob's my brother – my sister, whatever. She's a good person, she's not sick or mental or anything. It's just who she is."

The kid who chimed in earlier added, "My brother's gay." 

One of the other boys said, "I'm gay."

And another added, in a small, quiet voice, "So am I."

Neal swallowed hard, fighting against the tears. This wasn't the time or the place to add his voice to the disclosures; that would dilute the courage these kids were showing.

Mitch, the voice of the team, said, "We wanted to thank you for sticking up for Chloe – and for us, even if you didn't know it."

"Like I said, I was doing what I know is right. And I'd do the same for each of you."

"Thanks, Mr. Caffrey – that really means a lot. But we want to know what we can do, too."

"What do you mean?"

"We want to show everyone that we stand with Chloe. But we're not sure how. We thought maybe you could help."

Neal leaned back against the desk and gave the idea some thought. He had to be careful – whatever the boys did, it couldn't boomerang back at them or at Chloe. Or even worse, give Callaway ammunition. He got a germ of an idea. "What would you think about wearing skirts?"

"Like school uniform skirts?"

Neal nodded.

The boys stepped back and huddled together. Neal could hear them discussing the idea.

Mitch again spoke for the team. "We like it – and we're going to get tee-shirts made too, we'll wear them during training."

"Tee-shirts?"

"Yeah – with something like 'Just because I have a penis doesn't mean I'm a boy'."

Neal laughed, but cautioned them, "Don't go over the top – you don't want to get in trouble. How about 'Genitals don't equal Gender' – with the cool slash through an equals sign? And maybe on the back, 'We stand with Chloe Woods'?"

The boys seemed to like that. 

Neal hoped he wasn't digging a hole for himself, but he had to ask, "Can you all afford a uniform skirt?"

The kids looked at each other and gave a collective shrug. Mitch offered, "We'll go up to the big uniform place in the Bronx – I've got my birthday money and I'll help out if anyone can't pay."

Neal pulled out his wallet and handed Mitch a hundred. "Consider this my contribution. You're good kids, and I'm proud of you."

"We're proud of you, Mr. Caffrey. It took guts to stand up to that bit-, excuse me, that witch. I wish Principal Hughes was still headmaster. This wouldn't have happened if he was."

"No, it wouldn't have. But it's important that you show Chloe and the other students that you won't stand for bullying – whether it's by a student or by a teacher."

"Right."

"One more thing – you might want to make sure that Chloe's okay with your plans."

Mitch nodded. "Good idea."

"If you can't find Chloe, look for Evan Leary – they're best friends. You know Evan?"

"I think so – junior, curly hair, kind of a geek?"

"Bingo."

"Cool, I'll check with him – he's got the same lunch period as us." 

Mitch held out his hand, and Neal shook it. The other boys did the same and once again, Neal was almost moved to tears. He shooed them out. "Go, and do good."

He had a few more minutes before his students arrived and Neal sent a quick text to Elizabeth, telling her he didn't want to meet for coffee this afternoon, but he'd call her tonight and they could talk about what happened. Neal didn't want to become the rallying point for the large percentage of the faculty who were having trouble with the Callaway administration, but he knew that come Monday, he wasn't going to be able to avoid the blowback. He wanted – no, he needed – the coming weekend to prepare himself for the inevitable.

The bell rang and the students took their seats – Evan and Chloe racing in at the last minute. Almost all of them seemed subdued, and most of them stared at him in awe. Neal wondered just what a mess he might have created.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Evan never thought of himself as a crusader, but he wasn't the type of person who could stand by and let his friend – his best friend – get hurt. He couldn't shut Callaway up, he didn't have the faintest clue how to do that, but he could gather evidence. When the headmaster started shouting at Chloe through the bullhorn, he acted on instinct and pulled out his phone to record it. He hoped his hand stayed steady as he zoomed in first on Callaway's ugly face and then on Chloe's. He wanted to cheer when she stood up for herself, telling Callaway just what was what. But when Callaway demanded that Chloe start dressing like a boy and using the boys' facilities because she had a penis, Chloe looked like she was about to shatter, and Evan thought he'd break apart, too. 

Then Mr. Caffrey came to the rescue. It was like something out of a superhero movie – the way he stepped in and saved Chloe and everyone. 

Evan wasn't sure how he made it through the rest of the day, but he did. Everything seemed kind of surreal. At lunch, he and Chloe were surrounded by a bunch of kids they normally didn’t hang, but they were really interested in Chloe. And Chloe, for her part, didn't get flustered. She was totally confident in a way that Evan had never seen before.

When one of the girls in the group kept staring at her, Chloe stared back before saying, "I'm not an animal on exhibit in a zoo, you know."

"I didn't know you were a boy."

She sighed. "I'm NOT a boy. Just because I have the parts doesn't make me a boy."

"So – it's like you were born in the wrong body?"

Chloe nodded. "Yeah – that's it."

"And your folks are okay with that?"

"My mom's gone – she took a huge chunk of my dad's money and left to find her bliss or whatever. My dad's cool with it. He says a daughter's better than a son any day – something about being more dependable. Maybe he thinks I'll take care of him when he's old and decrepit."

Everyone laughed and Chloe answered a bunch more questions. Some were really rude, but none of them were mean. One of the girls, someone that Evan had always thought was really shallow and full of herself, said, "I love your makeup – I always thought you did your face really great. You've got such a fantastic eye for color."

That was the only comment that really threw his friend, and Chloe blushed when she admitted she practiced a lot and there was a really great bunch of videos she used as tutorials. The conversation turned to fashion and girly stuff and Evan kind of tuned it out. Chloe was good, at least for now.

About five minutes before the bell, someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. A senior was standing there, and there was a bunch of guys behind him. Evan vaguely recognized this guy from a few of his elective classes – Mitchell Lewis. A jock, kind of, but not the mean or stupid kind. "Yeah?"

"I need to talk to you – you got a sec?"

The guy didn't seem threatening, nor did the posse backing him up. Evan got up from the table and walked a few feet away, but remained close enough to make sure that if Chloe needed him, he'd be there. "Got a few before the bell rings. What's up?"

"What Callaway did to Chloe was really wack."

Evan nodded. "Yeah. She's a real – " He looked around to make sure no teachers were in earshot. "Bitch."

Mitch and the guys behind him nodded. "We talked to Mr. Caffrey – because he stood up for Chloe – and he gave us an idea. We want to stand up for her, too."

Evan wasn't expecting that. "That's awesome – really."

"Mr. Caffrey suggested that all of us on the track team wear skirts to school. Callaway wouldn't dare kick us out – we're going to the division championships. And we're going to have tee-shirts made, too – 'We Stand With Chloe' or something like that. But we wanted to make sure that Chloe would be cool with that. You two are really tight, so we wanted to ask – do you think she'll be okay with this?"

Evan was pretty sure that Chloe would be more than okay with this show of support, but he'd check with her anyway. "Can I get your number? I'll send you a text if there's a problem."

"Sure." Mitch rattled off a number and Evan put it into his phone. "If I don't hear from you, we're a go for Monday?"

Evan grinned. "Yeah. And thanks."

"No problem. We gotta stand together and do the right thing, right?"

"Right."

The bell rang and Mitch and the track team scattered. The kids at the table with Chloe took off, too. Chloe picked up her bag and joined him, shaking her head. "I'm like the shiny new thing."

"You okay with that?"

"Yeah – it'll blow over. And if worst come to worst and Callaway gets her way, it won't be until next year. My dad will get tutors for me, and I'll home school if I have to."

"I hope you don't have to – I'll miss you."

"Maybe you can do the home schooling with me, too." Chloe bumped her shoulder against his. "You're my best friend and I don't think I'd want to spend a whole year without seeing you every day."

Evan ducked his head, embarrassed. "Me, too."

As they headed to class, she asked, "What did those kids want?"

Evan shrugged and told her. "You cool with that?"

"They'd wear skirts – like a show of solidarity?"

"Yeah. And something about tee shirts, too. You're good?"

Chloe stopped walking, and Evan did, too. "I am. I never wanted to be anything more than a girl. I wanted to fit in, not stand out, not be 'special' or different. But every day I read about other trans kids who are bullied and get kicked out and I know that I'm super lucky. I have my dad, I have you, and until today, I've had this school as a safe place. And maybe this still can be my safe place – if other kids are going to stand up for me. And maybe I can make a difference for those other kids."

"I made a video of what happened." Until this moment, Evan wasn't sure what he was going to do with it. "I can edit it, add subtitles and post it on YouTube. If you want, I'll keep your name off it, but if you think that it's important to be counted, to stand up and do what's right, I'll put your name on it."

"And maybe I can say something at the end?"

"You'd want to do that?"

"Yeah, I think so." 

The second bell rang and they bolted for Mr. Caffrey's classroom. They'd talk about this later.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

To say that Peter was looking forward to spending the weekend with Neal was a huge understatement. He spent much of Saturday morning in Whole Foods, searching for the perfect ingredients. He fussed over the recipes – abandoning one idea after another. One dish was too complicated, another too stinky. Peter wanted to impress, but he didn't want it to seem like he was trying too hard.

Which was ridiculous, since they'd already spent an entire weekend together. 

He could just imagine what Clinton and Diana would say if they saw him dithering over melons, rubbing the skins to find a rare ripe one this early in the season, spending a fortune on Parma ham. And let's not mention the wine.

With everything ready, Peter showered and dressed in his usual Saturday night attire – black wool-silk slacks tailored to highlight his ass and his long legs, white French cuffed shirt – open at the collar, and a vest with a patterned silk back. The last was as close as he came to a sartorial affectation. But he knew he looked good in it, and that was all that mattered.

A little past seven-thirty, the doorman called to announce Neal's arrival and Peter waited impatiently for him to arrive, issuing strict orders to himself not to overwhelm the other man as soon as he walked in the door.

If he was in the military, he just might have been court-martialed, because he pulled Neal into his arms and kissed him as if his life depended on the air from his mouth. But Neal was far from unwilling. Whatever he was carrying – and it sounded like a bottle of wine – hit the rug with a definite thunk as he threaded his fingers through Peter's hair. The light scratch of Neal's nails against his scalp was as erotic a sensation as he'd ever felt and all he wanted to do was pull Neal into the bedroom and spend the rest of the night and most of the weekend making love to him.

But he didn't. He managed to gather the frayed fibers of his self-control and slowly broke the kiss.

Neal looked up at him, his pupils dilated, his lips swollen and his cheeks flushed. "Hi, there."

Peter rested his hands against Neal's waist and they were joined at the erection. But he just smiled back and said, "Hi." 

Neal licked his lips and Peter groaned. "Do that again and our plans for this evening are cancelled, in favor of sex."

Neal's tongue – just the tip – peeped out and his eyes glowed with mischief, but he didn't rise to Peter's dare. Instead, he carefully extricated himself from Peter's hold and bent to pick up the bottle he had dropped. Peter closed his eyes and prayed to all the saints he never believed in for the strength to resist the power of that perfect ass.

Neal stood up and asked, the picture of innocence, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, just trying to resist temptation. That's all."

Neal chuckled and handed him the wine. "This probably should rest for a few days, given the jostling."

Peter looked at the label and raised an eyebrow; it was a 2007 Brunello, an excellent and pricey vintage. "Yes, this does need to rest. We'll enjoy it another night."

"Good." Neal gave an audible sniff. "Whatever you're cooking smells delicious."

"Chicken Marbella, with an asparagus and mushroom risotto. Since we're going out later, I thought I'd keep the starter simple – melon and prosciutto. But there's a lemon ricotta torte for when we get back."

"You are a man of many talents, Peter."

Peter shrugged at the compliment and retrieved the platter of ham-wrapped melon from the fridge, putting it in front of Neal, along with a small plate and a napkin. "I don't get the chance to cook much, but I enjoy it. I'm not really the creative type – can't sing, can't act, and my artistic talents are rivaled by your average three year old, but the kitchen gives me an outlet." He led Neal into the kitchen. "Can I get you something to go with that?"

Neal smirked as they both remembered the last time Peter offered Neal _something_.

"No, that's for later. After the dessert."

Neal laughed, the sound ringing through the room. "Okay, if you'll have one with me, I'll have a glass of wine."

"That, I can do." Peter had opened a bottle of Shiraz last night with dinner – it was almost full and fully rested. He poured a glass for Neal and one for himself. "I need to get started on the risotto."

"Go right ahead. Is there anything I can help with?"

"Nope – everything's done but the actual cooking." He had the stock on a light simmer, the mushrooms and asparagus were already cooked and just needed to be added when the rice was ready and there was a dish of grated parmesan waiting. Peter could feel Neal's eyes on him as he measured out the rice and added a finely diced shallot to an oiled pan. Was this how performers felt on stage?

Peter pushed aside the butterflies and made small talk, telling Neal about the acts they were going to see tonight. "But I don't think any of them will hold a candle to Nicole. I told you about her, right? She's the best thing I've seen in a long, long time."

Behind him, he heard Neal choke and start to cough, and he turned around, concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine – fine." Neal held up a hand but he was still coughing. Peter handed him a napkin and reached into the fridge for a bottle of water. Neal waved it off as the choking subsided. "Sorry about that, must have swallowed wrong." He smiled but Peter couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. 

"Your rice is bubbling."

Peter turned back to the stove, distracted by the risotto, which was just a few seconds from ruin. He kept adding stock until it was tender, taking it off the flame before checking on the chicken, which was finished. He managed to create the pan sauce for the chicken and finish the risotto without ruining either dish. "Shall we?" Peter tilted his head towards the dining room.

Neal took the rice and Peter brought the chicken. A bottle of Barbaresco was open and breathing on the sideboard. 

"Shall I pour?"

"Please." Peter took the opportunity to plate the food. The conversation was light as they ate, but he could see that something was troubling Neal. "What's the matter?"

Neal shook his head. "Nothing."

"I know we haven't known each other long, but I can see that something's bothering you." Peter remembered Neal complaining about the administrative politics, and asked, "Did something happen at the school?" 

Neal took a sip of wine and swallowed. He looked Peter in the eye and asked, "Were you out in high school?"

Peter shook his head. "No. I didn't fully realize I was gay until I was in college."

"Ah."

"Did a student come out to you?"

"No, I wish it was that simple."

Peter had to chuckle. "How the world has changed, when coming out is a simple thing."

Neal replied with some heat, "No – it's not a simple thing, not even now."

"Sorry – you're right. It isn't. The world – at least here in New York – is a better place for gay adults, but teens still have a lot to deal with. I should know better."

Neal took another sip of his wine. "I'm sorry I snapped but, well, how much to you follow the news about Manhattan Prep?"

"Not as much as I'd like. I read the alumni newsletter and like I said when we had dinner with June, I've turned down a seat on the Board of Governors because I don't have the time."

"So you don't know that a few years ago, Philip Kramer made a very large donation to the school."

"Philip Kramer, conservative douchebag and self-styled five-star general of the culture warriors intent on saving America from homosexuality and other deviant behaviors?"

Neal nodded. "The same."

"Why would he be interested in Manhattan Prep?"

"I'm not really sure – but he's gotten his claws into the school and he's doing his best to destroy it. He was the reason Reese Hughes was forced into retirement. Just before Kramer made his donation, Reese had the Board pass the 'Dignity for All' policy."

Neal looked at him as if he expected Peter to know what that was. "Sorry – I must have missed that edition of the alumni newsletter."

Neal explained, "It's a policy that guarantees equal treatment for all students and provides for accommodations for transgender students. There are strong anti-bullying principles in the policy, too. I think that Kramer was so offended by the idea that an elite private school would not only tolerate, but would protect its gay and transgender students that he decided to try to take over the school. Basically, he bought a seat on the Board of Governors and is now trying to make Manhattan Prep into his version of Liberty University." 

Peter was flabbergasted.

But it didn't end there. "He even said, on one of his radio shows, that unless something happens, Manhattan Prep was going to destroy American culture and American values. The school is a stepping stone for future leaders in business and politics and just imagine a future where we have a transgender president." Neal wiped his mouth.

Peter felt just as nauseated. "So he's been using his money to influence the Board?"

"Exactly. The gym gets a planned refurbishment, and copies of _Our Bodies, Ourselves_ disappear from the school library. Classrooms are going to be equipped with digital whiteboards, but the school cuts funding for health education. And that's just for a start."

"That isn't right." Peter felt helpless to say anything more meaningful.

"No, it's not. And you want to really know why I'm upset?"

"As if that's not enough?"

Neal gave him a sour smile. "Yesterday, the new headmaster, Amanda Callaway, stood in the middle of the main hallway just as lunch was about to begin, and started berating a transgender student – with a bullhorn."

"What?" Peter wasn't sure he heard Neal correctly. "She did what with a bullhorn?"

"One of my students has openly identified as female since she was in eighth grade. Her mother is out of the picture, but her father – bless him – has supported Chloe fully. Even though she's too young for hormone treatments, she's been wearing a girl's uniform, and has had full use of the girls' facilities since she was fourteen. Last summer, she legally changed her name from Charles to Chloe. Most of the kids in her class know – but they don't seem to care. The other girls are pretty indifferent to her, and she is to them, too." Neal laughed and shook his head.

"What's so funny?"

"Your new intern, Evan Leary – he's Chloe's best friend. They've been inseparable since seventh grade. I think he's in love with her." Neal gave him a sharp look. "Is that a problem for you?"

"Why? Why would it?"

"Some guys – some gays – are freaked out by trans people and people who love them."

"I'm not." Peter reached for the wine, topping off both glasses. "So, this Callaway – she outed Chloe?"

"More than that – she called her 'Charles' and said that she was a boy – 'despite the sickness in his head' – was how she put it. She demanded that he wear a sex-appropriate school uniform and use the boys' facilities." Neal buried his face in his hands. 

"But the policy – the 'Dignity for All' policy that you just told me about. How could she do that?" It was beyond his comprehension that an educator could so abuse a student.

"I told her she couldn't. She said that the policy was going to be rescinded at the next Board of Governors' meeting. God knows what Kramer's promised. But I told Chloe that she was safe, that until the meeting is held – which won't happen until after the end of the school year – nothing had changed. Callaway didn't like that."

"She threatened you?"

Neal shrugged. "She said she was going to start digging for skeletons in my closet. But I don't care. I'll do what Reese did – I'll leave if she and Kramer have their way. I couldn't work in a place where you're only entitled to dignity if you meet someone else's bigoted standards."

"It's not going to come to that." 

Neal seemed to think otherwise. "Kramer and his checkbook are very powerful."

"Has he gotten anyone else a seat on the Board?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, but that's probably not going to last. People can be induced to leave. A big fat check can go a long way. "

Peter thought about what Neal told him. "You said that the gym was going to be refurbished, that the classrooms will be equipped with digital boards – but this hasn't happened yet?"

"No, not yet. Why?"

"I wonder if Kramer's just farting in the wind, or if he's actually made those donations."

"You think he's been lying?"

"I don't know – but it's worth taking a look at."

"How?"

"Watch and listen." Peter reached for his phone and dialed. The phone rang and someone picked up. "Kyle Bancroft, how are you?"

_"Peter Burke? Why are you calling me on a Saturday night? Is everything all right?"_

"I'm not sure. I have you on speaker, and I have Neal Caffrey in the room with me."

_"Caffrey? The history teacher from Manhattan Prep?"_

"Good, you know who he is."

_"Of course I do. Why is he with you on a Saturday night? Or shouldn't I ask?"_

"We were introduced by an old friend – but that's not relevant. Neal's brought me up to speed on what's been happening with the school."

 _"Ah – so he told you about Kramer …if only you'd taken the seat on the Board when Woodford stepped down."_ Bancroft sighed audibly. _"But I stopped asking, you were too busy building your business."_

"And maybe I shouldn't have been. Is it too late?"

_"Actually, no, it's not. That weasel, Haskley, is retiring. Kramer's been pushing his own candidate as a replacement – some rightwing blowhard from Fox – and making not-so-subtle hints about incentives if the Board selects her."_

"It seems that some of his incentives are working. Neal's told me that the school's made cuts in health education, removed some 'objectionable' books from the library. And worse – that Reese retired because of pressure from Kramer."

_"Yeah – that wasn't our finest hour."_

"What are my chances?"

_"On your own, as a former student who's made a fortune, and is committed to maintaining the school's legacy, about fifty-fifty."_

"And if I write a big fat check, with a lot of zeroes to the left of the decimal point?"

_"If I have the check in hand before the next meeting, and I have a chance to work the Board, about ninety-five percent."_

Peter caught Neal's eye and smiled, but Neal didn't smile back.

"One more thing, Kyle. The 'Dignity for All' policy. Neal tells me that Callaway says it's up for repeal at the next Board of Governors' meeting."

_"What?"_

Neal spoke up. "She told a transgender student that she's sick in the head and that she'll be expelled if she doesn't stop wearing skirts and using the girls' bathroom. That she has a penis and that makes her a boy. She said that the policy was being rescinded."

There was silence on the other end of the phone, but Peter could feel Bancroft's rage. Finally, he spoke, _"That must be why Andy Woods has been calling me. I was about to return his calls when you rang."_

Peter asked, "What are you going to do?"

_"Unfortunately, I can’t just fire her on your say-so. I'll have to conduct an investigation. Mr. Caffrey, I'll need a statement from you on Monday morning."_

"Certainly. There were a few hundred students and dozens of teachers in the hall when it happened. Callaway used a bullhorn – I'm sure that everyone in the building heard her," Neal added.

_"I don't believe this. I had reservations about her – but if this is true – Woods could take us to court and wipe the school off the map."_

"Listen, Kyle – that's the least of our worries. I'll bring over the check early next week. And I'll have your promise that Dignity for All is not under review, and will not be raised at the next Board meeting."

_"As Chairman of the Board of Governors, I control the agenda. It is not on the agenda, it will never be on the agenda. And I'll put my own pressure on Haskley – get him out before the meeting. You'll be presented as the preferred candidate and seated before the rest of the business is discussed."_

Peter sighed, knowing that his well-ordered life had just been upended. He ended the call with Bancroft and looked at Neal, who seemed stunned. Peter smiled and that seemed to coax an answering smile from Neal.

Somehow, everything was going to work out just fine.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal smiled back at Peter, who was all but glowing with triumph. “I didn’t expect you to rescue me.”

“I’m not – I’m rescuing the school. Manhattan Prep means a lot to me – I’d be a completely different man if it wasn’t for the school.”

“Okay.” That made Neal feel a bit better. The last thing he wanted was for Peter to see him as helpless and unable to fix his own problems. He needed to change the subject. “Do we really have to go out tonight?”

“Do you still want to?”

“Truthfully, no.”

“Do you want to go home?” Now Peter seemed upset.

“No – not at all. I just don’t think I’m up for hitting the clubs.”

Peter nodded. “Neither am I. Hold on.” He pulled out his phone and called someone – this time, he didn’t put the call on speaker. “Diana? You still at loose ends tonight?”

Of course, Neal couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation.

“I'm sorry to hear that. My own plans have changed. Amongst other acts, I was supposed to go hear ‘Burgundy Brass’ tonight at Webster Hall. Yes – yes, I know you were pissed that I grabbed the tickets – but now’s your chance. They take the stage at ten, so you have plenty of time to swing by and pick up the tickets.” Peter looked over at him and rolled his eyes. “And yes, you can meet him. But I’ll fire you if you scare him off.”

Neal smiled broadly and mouthed _Not possible_. Peter smiled back.

“Okay – great. See you in twenty.” Peter hung up. “Diana’s one of my best agents at the firm, she has a great eye for nascent talent.”

Neal wondered if Diana had been in the audience when Nicole sang but wasn't going to ask. “Has she been with you long?”

“About eight years. She was one of the first college interns at Burke Premier and the only one I've ever offered a full-time position to. She’s tough and aggressive and utterly fearless. You'll like her.”

Neal didn't see why he wouldn't, but it was more important that she liked him. He had the feeling that Peter considered his employees his family, and family opinion mattered.

As they cleaned up, the conversation inevitably returned to the events at Manhattan Prep and Peter asked him what the other students thought.

Neal told him about what the track team was doing, and Peter was impressed. 

"They sound like good kids."

"They are – but I think the big push came from the team captain. His brother is trans and went through a difficult time. Seeing what Callaway did to Chloe made him angry – and he was ashamed that he hadn't done anything to stop her and protect Chloe. He wanted to make things better."

"Have you thought about media exposure?"

Neal almost dropped the dishes he was carrying. "What?"

"Calling in the local news. This is New York, not Alabama. Public outcry against a principal who bullies and tries to shame a student can go a long way. And with what the track team is doing to support Chloe – this story got Emmy-award winning Human Interest Report written all over it."

"I don't know." Neal put the dishes down and leaned against the counter. "I think you're right about the track team, but I don't know if Chloe would want that. I don't know if I'd want that." He shook his head. "Actually, I know I don't want that."

"We could keep your name out of it."

"No – that's not going to be possible. You're talking about teenagers here – and a lot of them. And teachers. It's inevitable."

"I know you have a past, Neal – if that's what you're worried about…"

"It's not just that. What happened to me, what I did – it was a long time ago and in Europe. I don't think it will come out. I know I might sound like I'm full of myself – but I don't want the story to be about what I did. And I don't think media exposure is good for Chloe. She's had an easier time than most trans kids, but that doesn't mean she can't be hurt. Manhattan Prep is its own little world, you know that."

"I do – but this might be inevitable. Are cellphones banned on campus?"

"No – but kids can't use them … shit." Neal closed his eyes and remembered something. Evan holding his cellphone, pointing it at Callaway. There were other kids, too. And some of the teachers. "It's out there already, isn't it?"

Peter nodded. "I think so. Do you want to check?"

Neal pulled out his own cellphone, which he'd set to mute. There were dozens of messages – texts and alerts and emails – scrolling across the phone's lock screen. "Shit, shit, fuck, shit. Fuck." He dropped into a chair and stared at the phone. Peter sat down next to him.

"What do you want to do?"

"Right now, nothing." Neal shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Tomorrow will come soon enough. And Monday will be hellacious."

"Listen to me, Neal – let me help you get ahead of the story. I have friends in the media. They'll interview you and you can do it anonymously – behind a screen – if you'd prefer and you can explain that you want to remain anonymous because the story isn't about you. You tell the world that you are a teacher and you're only coming forward because you believe that every person, especially a child, is entitled to be treated with dignity."

He sighed. "Okay – but tomorrow. Let's just have tonight? Please?"

Peter put his arm around him, drawing him close. "Of course."

Neal rested his head against that broad chest, listening to that steady heartbeat, and wondered how he got so lucky.

Peter rubbed a soothing hand down his back and they might have sat there forever, but the phone rang.

"That must be Diana." Peter picked up and gave permission to the doorman to send her up. Neal scrubbed at his face and wondered if he could hide in the bathroom until she left.

"Don't be nervous."

"I'm not."

"Liar." Peter smiled and kissed his forehead.

Of course, it was inevitable that the proximity of Peter's lips to his skin made everything bad go away. "How about doing that again – only five inches lower."

Peter laughed. "If I did, I'd never get to the door – or worse, I'd be greeting Diana with a rather unseemly bulge. And just so you know, Diana doesn't like bulges."

"Huh?" Neal was a little confused. 

"Sorry – old joke." The doorbell rang, cutting off any explanation Peter was about to give. 

Neal fought against the urge to hide as Peter opened the door.

A tall African-American woman with cheekbones like knives entered. "Hey, boss."

"Di – I'd thank you for taking the tickets, but I know I'm really doing you a favor."

She laughed and cast her eyes around the room, zeroing in on Neal. "Of course you are – I'm the one who discovered Burgundy Brass and those tickets should have been mine in the first place."

"Boss' prerogative."

She lightly swatted Peter on his arm and walked over to Neal, hand out-stretched. “You are the reason for my good fortune?”

Neal shrugged. “I guess.”

Peter stood behind Diana and playfully rolled his eyes. “Di – this is Neal Caffrey, Neal – Diana Berrigan.”

Neal took Diana’s hand and wasn’t surprised at the firmness of her grip. 

“Let me go get those tickets.” Peter disappeared into another room, leaving him alone with Diana.

Of course, the interrogation began immediately. “You’ve known Peter long?”

“A few weeks. But we have a long-standing connection. June Ellington’s my godmother.” Neal wasn’t sure why he told Diana that.

But it seemed to count for something. Diana relaxed a bit and her smile was a touch less predatory. “So she introduced you?”

“Yeah. You’ve met June?”

“A few times. Peter’s very protective of that relationship, and I’m not allowed – no one’s allowed – to poach from _Ellington’s_.”

Neal wasn’t sure what that meant, and he didn’t get a chance to ask – but at least he now knew that Diana hadn't seen him perform. Peter came back, holding a small white envelope. “Here you go, and now you can go.”

Diana chuckled. “Eager to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” Peter was blunt as he went to open the door. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes, you will, boss.” She looked over her shoulder at Neal and smirked. “I’d say, ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’ but that’s kind of pointless, given the situation. Have fun, boys.”

Peter locked the door behind her and turned back to Neal with a sheepish grin on his face. "Hope she didn't scare you."

"I have the feeling that I was ninety seconds away from getting the 'if you hurt him, I'll make you regret ever being born' speech."

"Yeah, Diana's a bit protective."

"Why? Did you go through a bad breakup?"

"Nope – like I told you, I haven't really dated in years. She's just a little fierce. It's her nature, I guess. And it's really kind of silly – I can take care of myself."

"Yes – I think you certainly can." Neal went over to Peter and kissed him slowly. "Now, how about taking care of me?"

Peter kissed him back and steered them both towards the bedroom. "Oh, yes, I'm definitely going to take care of you."


	5. Chapter 5

Sunday morning, Peter watched from behind the cameras as Neal fielded pre-interview questions from Helen Anderson, a hard-hitting journalist who'd recently made the move from print to media.

Peter counted the station's owner, Leland Shelton, as a friend. And in this particular case, an asset, too – as Leland was also a Manhattan Prep alumnus. When Peter told him what was happening, what _had_ happened, Leland was just as appalled and arranged for his star reporter to handle the interview.

Helen was pressing Neal about his desire to remain behind a screen.

"It's not a good idea, Mr. Caffrey."

"Call me Neal, please."

"Neal. Your face is all over the Internet, as I'm sure you know." Helen pressed a button on her mike. "Geoff – pull up those YouTube vids."

Simultaneously, six different versions of Callaway shouting at Chloe and of Neal going to her defense appeared on the big video monitors behind them. Neal's face was clear in all of them, and in one, whoever was recording had gone in for a tight shot, capturing Neal's anger and his anguish, following him as he took Callaway down and then as he went to make sure that Chloe was okay. Peter had seen this vid a dozen times, but it still moved him to tears.

"Your face is out there – and so is your name." Helen pointed to one video with subtitles, identifying Neal as "Mr. Caffrey". "There's no reason to hide behind a screen – it's pointless and will come across badly, as if you have something to hide."

Neal grimaced. "I have a past, Ms. Anderson."

"Is it bad?"

Neal asked, "Are the cameras rolling?"

"No. But I need to know, if this is going to be an effective piece."

Neal nodded. "Okay. Some stuff happened, I was a kid, barely out of college. Some things with my family and I went off the rails as a result."

"Were you arrested?"

"No – I was in Europe and got caught up in a bad scene. I did nothing illegal. Immoral, maybe, but not illegal."

Peter knew that there was a lot that Neal wasn't saying – like why he had burn scars on his buttocks.

Helen stayed focused, like a bloodhound on the scent.

"What things happened with your family?"

Neal looked over at Peter, and he smiled – hoping he looked calm and reassuring.

"I found out that my father wasn't the man I thought he was. It's old news and public record, and if you're really interested, you can look up Detective James Bennett of the NYPD if you want the scoop. But it's not relevant. I sowed my wild oats, got my life back together, came home to New York, finished my master's degree in history and got a teaching certificate. Then I was hired by Manhattan Prep."

"So there's nothing in your life you need to hide?"

Neal didn't answer right away and Peter wondered what he wanted to hide. Then Neal smiled and shrugged. "Other than what I've told you – my life's an open book."

"Okay – we'll do a short background piece about you, focusing on your time as a student at Manhattan Prep; we'll emphasize your academic career, your time at Harvard. And to dismember any skeletons, we'll talk briefly about your time in Europe and how you got out of a bad situation, emphasizing your goal to become a teacher and to help kids through their own rough times."

Peter watched as Neal visibly relaxed, but he still worried that he was hiding something.

"It's going to be fine, Peter." Leland was standing next to him, watching as Helen prepped Neal.

"I'm having second thoughts about this. Neal didn't want to be the focus of the story and it seems like I've pushed him into doing something he doesn't want."

"Neal won't be," Leland assured him. "There's much more to this story than a single teacher standing up for what's right. It's about acceptance and the dignity that every human being deserves. And it's about saving the legacy of Manhattan Prep. We wouldn't be where we are today without that school."

"No, we wouldn't. But still… "

"Relax, Peter. Trust me. Trust us." Leland pulled him out of the studio. "They're going to start filming, we'll watch from the control booth." To Peter's surprise, Kyle Bancroft was there. Leland explained, "After you called last night, I did my due diligence."

"I wasn't aware that you were active with the school and knew each other."

"Leland contributes to the Alumni fund, and like you, he's been just as cagey about taking a more active role." There was a definite note of censure in Bancroft's voice. "When he told me that Caffrey was going to do an interview, I thought it would be a good idea to come down and watch."

Peter understood. "So you're going to give this the school's blessing?"

"Depends on the content and the outcome."

Leland added, "I think it would be a good idea if Kyle sits for a brief interview, if he talks about the Dignity for All policy and how vital it is to the school. It will go a long way to deflect the damage that Kramer and Callaway have done." Leland's own tone had a fair bit of censure in it, too. "Pity that Reese Hughes is away – he was the policy's champion as I understand it and would look good on camera."

Peter felt like he was caught between two lions battling for the choicest part of the kill and turned everyone's focus back to the interview that was just starting.

Helen handled Neal perfectly. There was a touch of aggression, of professional skepticism. This wasn't a cakewalk for Neal – no softball questions – but Neal answered them with grace and an aura of confidence that didn't surprise Peter in the least.

Peter knew that the interview would be ruthlessly cut to meet the time the network had allotted to the story – and there would be other parts of the story – but Helen was digging deep, asking intensely personal questions but framing them back to the events at the school.

"Were you a victim of bullying, Neal? You said before that you came out when you were in seventh grade."

"I did, and I was lucky. I had good friends and they stood by me when I came out, and Reese Hughes – he'd been a teacher at Manhattan Prep before he became headmaster – was a very strong voice for acceptance, even back then. He led by example and what could have been a very traumatic five years was a time that helped shaped the person I am now. That certain new members of the school administration are trying to undo Hughes' legacy angers me deeply. And to abuse a student the way that Principal Callaway did is unspeakable."

Neal covered his eyes with a shaking hand. "I'm sorry – I still find it hard to believe."

"What was going through your mind when it did?"

Neal sighed. "I don't know if I can put it into words. Rage, but concern, too. I was worried about the student's well-being, the well-being of the other students who were witnessing Principal Callaway's actions. School is supposed to be a safe place and very often it isn't – but when that safety is compromised by the very people who we entrust to ensure it – " Neal shook his head. "I knew I had to do something."

Peter thought it was interesting that Neal was careful not to mention Chloe Woods' name, even though most of the YouTube vids had identified her. Watching Neal answer the reporter's questions, he felt so proud of Neal, but it was more than pride. This was a man he could respect, a man who was – despite his past – his equal. He could trust Neal.

He could love Neal.

And then it hit him. He already loved Neal. Although they'd only known each other for a little more than a week, Peter could see a lifetime spent with this man. And for some reason, that terrified him.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

After nearly twenty minutes into the interview, Helen paused the questioning and touched the small earpiece she wore. "Shall we take a break?"

Without waiting for Neal to say anything, Helen got up and left the studio. Not sure what was happening, Neal headed towards the door that Peter had gone through when the cameras started rolling.

He found Peter, Leland Shelton, the man who owned this television station, and someone he thought he recognized, but wasn't quite sure.

Peter smiled at him and all Neal wanted to do was leave the studio and go back to Peter's apartment and crawl into bed. And crawl all over Peter.

Unfortunately, Peter interrupted that fantasy. "Neal – this is Kyle Bancroft, president of the Manhattan Prep Board of Governors. We spoke last night."

Neal held out his hand and was rewarded with a firm handshake. "Are you still going to need a formal statement from me tomorrow?"

Bancroft sighed. "I probably should. I've already spoken with Andy Woods and Chloe, and they've made a formal complaint against Callaway. Despite this – " Bancroft gestured around the studio control room. "- dog and pony show, we still need to follow protocol."

Neal offered, "I can be at the school early." 

"Actually, we'll send in a substitute for your classes tomorrow. This will take a while. And we should probably do this away from the school facilities." Bancroft scribbled something down on a piece of paper. "This is the school's law firm, we'll do it there."

Neal looked at it – the address was on Park Avenue South, in one of the buildings that bordered Grand Central Terminal. "I'd rather not lose a day, sir. We're about six weeks from the AP exams and every day counts."

Bancroft smiled at him. "I appreciate your dedication, Caffrey. When are your AP classes?"

"After lunch."

"Okay, how about we send in a sub for your morning classes and if you're done in time, you can finish the day. Although it might be best to keep a low profile for the next few days."

Neal shook his head. "No, sir – I have to disagree. I did nothing wrong and I'm not going to hide. Those kids are my first responsibility."

"He has you there, Kyle," Leland Shelton noted. "And just so you know, Chloe Woods and her father are coming to the studio this afternoon. Helen's going to interview Chloe. Brave … girl."

Neal wasn't surprised that the man stumbled a little on the gender, but overall, he seemed like an okay kind of guy. Probably more interested in ratings than anything. Before Neal could say anything about this latest development, Helen Anderson came into the control room and joined them. She was carrying a folder.

"Neal – Mr. Caffrey, can I talk to you?"

"Sure – do you want to restart the interview?"

"Not quite yet. I have to ask you something." She pulled him away from the three men he'd been talking with.

Neal looked at the folder in her hand and got a sick feeling he knew what was in there. He looked over at Peter and wondered how he was going to get out of this without destroying something he'd begun to value more than almost anything. Peter was talking with Shelton and Bancroft, but must have sensed Neal's gaze. He looked at him with a bit of concern. Neal managed to smile and Peter smiled back.

"My research assistant is very thorough. She also has access to some pretty sophisticated facial recognition software. I need to know, is this you?" Helen held out the folder to Neal. 

Neal opened the file and there was a photo of him, as Nicole. It had been pulled off of someone's Instagram feed, with the comment, "Would you believe, this is a #trannie?" There was a second picture, of him as "Nick", in a tuxedo. The long curls were gone, but he was still wearing all of Nicole's makeup and he was clearly singing.

He snapped the folder closed, praying that Peter wouldn't come over, he wouldn't want to see. "Yes."

"You understand why this matters, don't you?"

Neal agreed, but he didn't say anything.

Helen continued, "It affects the integrity of the interview, it casts a completely different light on your motives."

But of course, Peter joined them. Of course, Peter asked, "Neal, what's the matter?"

Neal shook his head minutely. "Nothing's wrong. Helen and I were just discussing something that her research assistant found."

"Can I see?"

He looked at Helen, pleading with her not to pursue this. But she wasn't budging. "Mr. Caffrey – you have to tell me what this means."

Neal handed the folder to Peter, but he didn't watch his reaction as he looked inside. Instead, he focused on Helen. "I'm not at all ashamed of this. It's a costume – a piece of performance art. It's no different than a bunch of middle-aged men putting on greasepaint and stacked leather boots and performing in a KISS tribute band."

Neal felt like he was dancing on a tightrope and the fall was inevitable. He knew, without looking, that Peter was furious. He could feel the icy waves of anger rolling off of him.

Helen asked, "So, you're telling me you're not a transvestite?"

"No, I'm not."

Helen kept peppering him with questions. "And you don't wear women's clothing except when you're on stage?"

"I own one dress – the one in the picture. Like I said, it's a costume. Nothing more. I'm a teacher at a private school – that's all I want out of life. My godmother owns the club where I perform. This is nothing more than a hobby." Neal ached for Peter to understand everything he couldn't say right now.

Helen was either oblivious to the undercurrents between him and Peter or was choosing to ignore them. "Okay – I'm going to need to ask you about your act. We'll set the questions as if they were at the start of the interview, so when you answer, you can't phrase things as if you've already talked about them."

Neal let out the breath he'd been holding. The unexpected disclosure of his performance as Nicole and Nick didn't only create problems for him and Peter, it could taint the whole interview and he had worried that Helen was going to cancel it.

"All right – let's get back into the studio." Once again, she didn't wait for Neal to agree, she just marched out of the control room.

Neal finally turned to Peter, who was still holding the folder. He started to apologize but Peter just shoved the file at him and walked away, turning his back at him. 

_"Neal, we're waiting for you."_ Helen's voice came over the speaker.

"Peter, please – "

Peter didn't turn around and Neal had no choice but to go back into the studio.

Helen barely waited for him to get settled before digging her teeth in. "Mr. Caffrey, I understand you have an interesting extracurricular activity. It makes for an interesting counterpoint to the video we've just seen."

Neal understood what Helen was doing – she was going to lead with a clip from one of the YouTube vids. "Yes, it does. For about a year, every couple of months – when classes aren't in session – I perform at _Ellington's_ , a jazz club in the East Village. I'm what you call a vocal counterfeiter – I can copy a lot of different singers, their styles, their intonation. I really don't have a style of my own. My godmother, who owns the club, suggested a riff on the old movie, 'Victor/Victoria', where I dress as a woman for the first half of the show - the torch singer called Nicole - and then as a man for the second set. He's Nick, a suave cabaret act."

"You're not a transvestite, though."

"No, I'm not. I guess the closest way to describe it is, for part of my performance, I'm in drag."

"But you haven't told anyone about your act, have you?"

"A few of my colleagues know, but I thought it best not to advertise, given the current level of animosity towards … " Neal thought for the least inflammatory way of putting it. "Non-standard behavior at Manhattan Prep. Given what I witnessed on Friday, it still seems like the best decision." Except that he'd hurt Peter and likely killed any chances of a real relationship between them.

"Can you tell us how what you do in your performance is different from what your transgender student does by wearing a skirt and makeup?"

Neal hoped he was able to keep the grimace off his face. Helen was doing her best to smooth over the effects of his own activities, and while the question was clumsy, it was something he did need to address. "At the simplest level, transgender people feel that they are a different gender from what their physical bodies display. Transgender people can be gay or straight or asexual. Gender is at issue, not sexuality. Transvestites prefer to wear clothing of the opposite gender, and can take sexual pleasure in that activity. Transvestites may be gay or straight, too – but a lot of people will call straight transvestites 'cross-dressers'. Drag is all about costume – a public performance of some sort - nothing more, nothing less."

Helen nodded and moved off of the topic. She asked him some pointed questions about the school and the Dignity for All policy before bringing the interview to a close. Neal waited for the light over the camera to go green before bolting out of the studio and back into the control room.

Chloe and her father were there, so was Bancroft and Leland Shelton, but there was no sign of Peter. It was too much to hope that he was in the men's room.

Shelton, however, killed that hope. "Peter had to leave – said he got an urgent text from his staff."

Instead of leaving, Neal went to talk to Chloe. He wasn't going to chase after Peter when it was pretty clear that Peter didn't want to listen.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Walking from the television station's studio near Columbus Circle back to his apartment, Peter didn't feel the sunshine on his face, the warmth that held the promise of spring and longer, greener days. Anger propelled him – one foot in front of the other for twenty-odd blocks.

He felt … used, played. That Neal had gotten close not because of his interest in Peter Burke, the man, but in Peter Burke, the talent agent. 

He felt like a fool. He'd raved and raved about 'Nicole' – calling her the greatest thing since sliced bread – and all that time, Neal knew that Nicole was nothing more than a construct, a figment. That _he_ was Nicole.

As he let himself into his apartment, Peter tried to calm down, to get some perspective. But it was difficult when all he could see was Neal in various shades. Hell, their breakfast dishes were still in the sink and there was a second coffee mug on the counter, so close that their handles were kissing. Peter wanted to smash them against the wall.

This was so fucking _stupid_ to react like this. He barely knew Neal. Yes, the sex was good, yes, Neal was smart and beautiful and he punched all his buttons. Yes, he had – for a very brief moment – thought that he'd met someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

But Neal Caffrey was a liar. A user. A cheat.

He used him. Or was going to use him.

And no one used Peter Burke, ever.

Peter sank into one of the easy chairs next to the windows overlooking the park, but he didn't see the swath of green or the gardens that bordered the park, or the marble façade of the Public Library. All he saw was Neal's pale face when that reporter confronted him with the truth.

He scrubbed at his own face, trying to erase the image, the look of pleading desperation in the other man's eyes. He didn't want to see the pain, the acknowledgement that all his lies had just come home to roost.

And yet, his heart said, _Neal never lied to you._

But his brain replied, _A deliberate omission of a critical fact is a lie._

His phone buzzed and Peter had a good idea who was calling him. He checked – it was Neal. He considered ignoring the call, but it was best to end this now. Cleanly.

He answered, but didn't say anything.

_"Peter?"_

"Yes."

_"I'm sorry."_

"I'm sure you are."

_"I never meant for you to find out like this."_

"No, I'm pretty certain you didn't. Messed up all you big plans."

_"I have no big plans, Peter."_

"Yeah, Neal. You played me. You gave me a taste of something and you thought you'd wrap me around your little finger."

_"No – not at all. It was nothing like that."_

Peter didn't want to listen to Neal's denials, his excuses. "I don't know how you got June to do this, I wouldn't have thought she could be conned so easily."

_"I didn't. June – "_

Peter cut him off. "We're done, Neal. It's over, it's finished." _Before it's even really begun._

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end and Peter wondered if Neal had hung up, but before he could check, Neal asked, _"What about your promise to Bancroft? To the school?"_

Part of him wanted to tell Neal that he could forget about that. But the commitment he'd made wasn't really about Neal. "I am a man of my word, and I keep my promises."

_"Okay. Thank you. I never meant to hurt you."_

Peter ignored the catch in Neal's voice. He ignored the pain in his heart, and said, "Goodbye, Neal." He ended the call and stared out the window. It might have been a glorious spring afternoon on the other side of the glass, but inside, it seemed as cold and barren as midnight in January.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Evan was a little afraid when he walked through the front doors of Manhattan Prep on Monday morning. It had turned out that a bunch of other kids had made a vid of Callaway, Chloe and Mr. Caffrey, and posted it to YouTube, but his was the one that went viral. His was the one that Channel 1's Sunday night news magazine program, _Circumspect_ , used to bookend the feature piece they did about the school, what had happened on Friday, and the greater plight of trans kids and adults. 

Chloe and her dad had been interviewed, as had Mr. Caffrey and even some of the school's administrators, at least the ones that still supported Dignity for All. Principal Callaway apparently declined to be interviewed, at least according to the report that aired.

Since he had posted it on Friday night, his vid had gotten over a hundred thousand hits and a few thousand comments. There were a lot of crap comments; a lot of trolls who agreed with Callaway, even some that urged Chloe and other trans kids to just kill themselves, but the majority of the comments were really supportive. 

Of course, he hadn't used his real name when he posted the vid, but in her interview at Channel 1, Chloe had mentioned that the vid was made by her best friend, which meant that anyone who knew Chloe would know that he was the one who had posted it.

He didn't care who knew. Well, not really. He didn't want to be famous, but it would be kind of cool to be admired. And he was – a whole bunch of kids were calling his name, telling him "good job" and stuff like that.

"Hey there!" Chloe ran up to him. "You see the program?"

"Of course I did. You were great." He hugged his friend.

Chloe smiled. "I just wanted to do the right thing."

"You definitely did, and you'll really make a difference for other kids who aren't so lucky."

"I hope so."

As they headed towards their lockers, one of the school secretaries approached. "Mr. Leary?"

"Hey, Ms. Moss." Evan had known the woman for years – she's been the old Headmaster's secretary and everyone was grateful that she'd stayed on after Principal Hughes left. 

"You'll need to come with me." 

Butterflies erupted in his stomach. "What's the matter?"

Ms. Moss frowned. "I can't say."

That wasn't good. She knew something was going to happen, something bad. 

"I'm supposed to ask if you've left your cell phone in your locker. You have, right?" She nodded at him.

Evan slowly nodded back, understanding what she was saying. He stopped when they were near the boys' room. "Can I go to the bathroom, first?"

Ms. Moss gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Okay – but don't take long."

"Right." It didn't take long to set the record mode on his phone – just a few seconds. Evan double-checked the recording volume, washed his hands, and feeling a little less shaky, followed Ms. Moss through the school, past the headmaster's office and into an office that he had no clue existed.

"Wait here."

As Evan waited, his heart pounding, he looked around. This seemed to be the office for the school's Board of Governors or whatever they were called. There were a bunch of portraits of old white guys, and a few women, too.

A few moments later, Ms. Moss returned. "You can go in, now." She squeezed his shoulder, as if to give him courage.

The room he entered was a boardroom, with a long table, lots of wood paneling and more portraits on the walls. There were only two people in the room. He wasn't surprised that one was the headmaster, Principal Callaway. The other person, an old guy with receding hair and piggy eyes, was someone Evan recognized – from posters and book covers and appearances on television. 

Phillip Kramer, rightwing douche bag.

"Take a seat, Mr. Leary." Calloway gestured to one of the chairs near the head of the table, where Kramer was seated, like a frog on a throne.

Evan couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why is Mr. Kramer here?"

"Phillip Kramer is a member of the Board of Governors, and he will be President of the Board after the next meeting. He is very concerned about the school and what's been happening here, and the damage that's been caused to the school's reputation."

Evan nodded, but he thought how ironic _that_ was, considering how Callaway herself damaged the school's reputation.

"Why am I here?"

Callaway smiled, and the expression was terrifying. "Don't pretend you don't know you've done something wrong."

"I haven't and I don't know." 

"You don't? Then why are you so nervous?"

"Because I've been pulled out of class, told I need to leave my cell phone in my locker, and then I'm taken to a room where students aren't generally supposed to go to. And there's a member of the Board of Governors here, too. Why shouldn't I be nervous?" Evan kept his eyes on Kramer. The man nodded, but said nothing.

Callaway drew his attention back to her. "You're a scholarship student, Mr. Leary. You have been for five years."

"Yes, I am."

"Some might say you've been given a free ride. That you've taken a place from someone who would be better equipped to enjoy the benefits of an education at Manhattan Prep."

Evan wasn't sure what Callaway meant by that, but it sounded like a classist insult to him. He said nothing.

She continued, "But that's not why we're here. As a scholarship student, you have certain obligations to the school."

Evan couldn't hide his confusion. "What do you mean?"

Callaway opened a folder – it looked like his academic record. She flipped through it and eventually pulled out a bunch of pages. "This is your scholarship agreement. Please read paragraph nineteen."

Evan did. "The student shall not, during his or her time at Manhattan Preparatory Academy as a recipient of a scholarship, make any statements that will cast Manhattan Preparatory Academy, its policies or its administration, in a negative light, nor shall the student do anything to defame or otherwise damage the reputation of Manhattan Preparatory Academy, its policies or its administration. In the event that the Board of Governors determines that the student has violated this clause, the student shall be expelled from Manhattan Preparatory Academy and be required to refund all scholarship funds, plus damages in an amount deemed appropriate by the Board of Governors." Evan dropped the pages, his hands shaking.

"You're in big trouble, Mr. Leary."

Evan's mind was racing. He picked the pages back up and read them again, this time to himself. He checked to make sure that this wasn't a page added in to suit the convenience of Callaway and Kramer, but at the bottom, he recognized his father's initials.

For the first time, Kramer spoke, "Your little video has badly damaged the reputation of this school, son."

"No – it was Principal Callaway who did. She was the one who lied, who tried to hurt a student, who tried to make it seem like Chloe Woods was mentally ill. I just recorded what happened. So did others."

Kramer waved that off. "The others weren't as creative as you were. And the others didn't have that poor, sick boy defending his disgusting lifestyle and urging others to be like him at the end of their video."

Evan wanted to punch that wheezing bastard in the face. Instead, he shouted, "Chloe isn't sick and she isn't disgusting. You are."

"Mr. Leary, I suggest you control yourself." Callaway stood up and leaned over him.

"Relax, Amanda." Kramer gestured, and the woman sat down. "There's no need to get huffy, son. We want to do the right thing and it would certainly be a shame for you to end your academic career here at Manhattan Prep on such a … disgraceful … note. It would also be a shame to bankrupt your family with cost of repaying the scholarship and the legal fees from the school's suit against you."

Evan was nauseous. His folks got by, but they weren't rich. He knew that there were expenses that the scholarship didn't cover that strained his parents' finances. This would kill them.

"What are you saying?"

"We're going to offer you a chance to fix your mistake. You do this one thing for the school and all your problems will go away."

"I'm not taking the video down."

"No, of course you're not." Kramer leaned over and whispered something into Principal Callaway's ear. She got up and went to the door, and it seemed as if she was checking to make certain no one was listening.

When she came back, she was all smiles. "Mr. Leary, we're not trying to frighten you, or force you to leave the school. We want you to do the right thing."

"Which is?" Evan couldn't imagine what these two thought was "the right thing."

"Mr. Caffrey is one of your teachers, right?"

Evan nodded. "Yeah – he was my tenth grade social studies teacher and now he's my AP European History teacher."

Callaway continued, "You like him?"

"Yeah. But what does that have to do with anything?"

Callaway was blunt in her opinion. "Mr. Caffrey is a disgusting pervert." 

"What?"

"He's a dirty faggot who goes around dressing in women's clothes."

"You're crazy!"

Kramer stepped in. "The way I see it, Mr. Leary, Mr. Caffrey's expressed far too much interest in you. He's written letters of recommendation for you."

Evan could barely control his outrage, "For an internship and he's not 'interested' in me, not like that. You're disgusting to even say so!"

"Son, calling me names won't save your scholarship and won't help your parents from financial disaster. So I suggest you sit down and listen to what we have to say."

Callaway laid out their plan. "You are going to go to the police and you're going to tell them that Neal Caffrey touched you inappropriately."

Evan tried to calm himself down. Getting angrier wouldn't save anyone. So he parroted, "Inappropriately?"

"Yes – you know what I mean. He touched your body. Your ass. Your penis. Maybe he told you your grades would be better if you gave him a blow job."

Kramer interrupted, "No need to be crude, Amanda. I think the boy gets the picture."

Evan licked his lips. "Why? Why do you want me to lie?"

"Who's to say it's a lie? If he didn't touch you, he probably touched some other poor boy. He's a fag and that's what fags do."

Evan shook his head. These people were evil. "You want me to go to the police so Mr. Caffrey would be arrested, right? So he'd have to resign?"

Kramer leaned back in his chair and complimented him. "You are a smart kid, Mr. Leary – and it's clear that it's more than just book-learning smart. I like that."

"And what happens when Mr. Caffrey goes to jail because of my lies?"

"Well, it doesn't have to come to that. You can refuse to testify and the charges would be dropped."

"And I'd have ruined someone's life."

"He'll survive – those kind always do. Like cockroaches." Before Evan could say anything, Kramer continued. "Think about it and make the right choice, son. But if you don't take action before this Friday, we'll have no choice but to take action against you."

Callaway added, "Do the right thing, Evan. The school needs you."

Evan stood up and tried not to shove his shaking hands in his pockets, where his cell phone had hopefully recorded every word that came out of these bastards' mouths. "I'll think about it."

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal didn't remember much after leaving the television studio. Someone had arranged for a car to take him home. The club was closed on Sundays and Mondays and June had gone up to Boston to visit her daughter. Marthé and the rest of the staff were off, too. So, Neal was alone in the big house and that suited him perfectly.

He wanted to rage, he wanted to cry, he wanted to crawl all the way to Peter's apartment and beg him for understanding. 

But he didn't beg, he didn't crawl. Not anymore and never again.

Out of curiosity, but more numb than interested, he watched the piece on _Circumspect_. Helen and the news team did a fantastic job of seamlessly piecing his interview together. The bit about Nicole was dispensed within the first two minutes, but his little speech on the differences between transgender and transvestites came almost at the end. Chloe's part was brief, and Bancroft's statement even briefer. Helen wrapped the segment up with a statement that Amanda Callaway was not available for comment. All in all, a half-hour of excellent investigative journalism that likely saved Manhattan Prep but demolished his dreams.

Despite the televised interview, he still needed to give his official statement. Bancroft had asked him to be at the offices of the law firm that represented the school by seven AM. He arrived a half-hour early because sleep was impossible. The questions were a lot more pointed than the ones he'd fielded from the reporter, but at least there weren't any that touched on his past or his personal life. As he answered, Neal felt detached from the whole process, as if someone else was sitting in this glossy, high tech conference room.

Eventually, the questions stopped and Bancroft told him to go home.

"You look like shit, Caffrey. And while I appreciate your commitment to your students, take the rest of the damn day off. You've earned it."

Neal didn't argue. He was numb and exhausted, and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel he could face a classroom full of students.

He didn't feel like he had anything meaningful to say.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Evan did something he'd never done before. He cut class. The "interview" with Callaway and Kramer had taken less than a half-hour and while he was certainly excused from the rest of his first period English class, he'd probably get in trouble for cutting out of Trig. 

He didn't care.

There was a small, rundown coffee shop a few blocks from the school. He'd passed it almost every day on his way to and from the subway for the last five years, but he'd never gone in. It seemed like a place for adults, not kids, not students – it was the anti-Starbucks. Probably didn't even have WiFi. Today, though, he needed a refuge and that seemed like the perfect place. He ignored the sign, "Please wait for a hostess to seat you" and took a booth in the back. There were a few people at the counter, reading the newspaper, old-school style, with actual newsprint.

A waitress with hot pink hair that might have been cute if she wasn't in her mid-sixties, asked, "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Evan shrugged. "Probably, but I'm not. Can I have a cup of tea, please?"

The waitress stared at him and finally cracked a smile. "Yeah, sure."

He pulled out his phone and a set of earbuds, and he was trembling so hard that he couldn't get the plug into the phone's jack or one of the buds into his ear. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no point in getting hysterical, yet. He finally managed to get everything set up and hit the play button on the recording. There was a lot of dead air, but he could hear his footsteps, and then Ms. Moss' instructions, more dead air and then Callaway talking. In perfect clarity. 

The waitress came back with his tea and he let the cup sit and grow cold as he listened to Kramer and Callaway talking, his own voice sounding weird. But it was all there. The threats, the ugliness, the demand that he lie to the police so they could get rid of Mr. Caffrey.

The recording was briefly interrupted by the sound of an incoming text. It was Chloe. _Where r u?_

He replied, _Coffeeshop on 129th n Riverside. Old place near the subway. Can u meet me here?_

_Give me 10_

Chloe arrived exactly ten minutes later. Unlike him, she had no problems cutting class.

"What happened? Why did Moss drag you away?"

Evan just handed Chloe one of the earbuds and let her listen. Her pale skin grew even paler as she listened. In disgust, she yanked out the earbud. "Those fucking bastards."

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I can't go to my parents – they'd freak out. I never even told them about what happened on Friday or the vid or the interview for the news." His folks weren't the newsmagazine watching type, especially when there was baseball on.

"What about the police? Isn't it a crime to tell someone to make a false accusation?"

"I don't know. But if I go to the police, they might use it as ammunition against me. Kramer said that he's going to be president of the Board of Governors next year. I can't afford to pay back my scholarship."

"But if it's Kramer who's making you do something illegal…"

Evan nodded. "I know, but it could still backfire against me."

"You're not going to tell the police that Mr. Caffrey tried to molest you?"

"NO! Absolutely not."

"You could tell Mr. Caffrey what Callaway and Kramer want you to do."

He'd thought about that, but he was afraid what his teacher might do. "Could your dad help?" Chloe's father terrified him sometimes, but he wasn't going to let that stop him from asking for help.

Chloe shrugged. "Probably, but he is really after me to home school next year – this might give him more ammunition." She frowned, but then brightened. "When I was at the television studio, Peter Burke was there. You know – the guy from the talent agency where you've got your internship next summer."

"Huh? Why was he there?"

"I heard my dad talking to him – he also went to Manhattan Prep, and he's making a big donation to the school. He knew the guy who owns the TV station and I think he knows Mr. Caffrey, too. Maybe you can ask him what to do. I think he's the one who set up the interview with the television station."

Evan had liked Peter Burke and was really looking forward to the internship this summer, even if he would just spend eight hours a day making photocopies and fetching coffee. It was really kind of funny that he knew Mr. Caffrey, though. "You think he'd help?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Wanna come with me to his office?"

Chloe shrugged and smiled. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."


	6. Chapter 6

Monday morning brought too many regrets.

Regret for consuming the better part of a bottle of scotch. Regret for the bright spring sunlight burning past his eyelids. Regret for a busy schedule filled with meetings that couldn't be cancelled, short of death.

And most of all, regret for his own stupidity, his pride, for hearing but not listening. Regrets for tossing away the best thing that ever happened to him because it was easier to assume than to understand.

Peter had watched _Circumspect_ last night. He hadn't wanted to, but he did – thinking that it would vindicate him. That he'd see the cunning and the triumph on Neal's face when he talked about his act, but it wasn't there. Peter replayed the question and answer over and over again, trying to find that one spark of emotion that would vindicate his anger. All he saw was worry that this "hobby" could somehow taint what he'd done to support a transgender child in the face of cruelty, ignorance and bigotry. 

Peter took a car to his offices on Sixth and Fifty-Third, normally an easy ten-minute walk. He just didn't own a pair of sunglasses dark enough to block the sun's stabbing rays.

Diana was an unfortunate ray of sunshine, clearly ready to comment on Neal. Peter pulled off his sunglasses and glared at her. "Don't say a single word."

She backed off, and whispered something to Peter's admin, Blake. A few minutes after he sat down at his desk, Blake came in with a perfectly pulled cup of espresso. He grunted his thanks and started going through his calendar. Like most Mondays, the day was front loaded, back-to-back conference calls with music executives in Europe. It was eight AM now and he wouldn't get a break until well after two.

Peter went into the conference room and Clinton looked like he was going say something – probably about how weird it was that his boyfriend was actually the female singer he was so interested in. But Clinton backed down and they focused on the contracts that were under negotiation. One call rolled into another. Blake came in with more coffee and some freshly squeezed juice, which seemed to help. Clinton left, and Diana came in to handle the next round of meetings.

A little past noon, before the next call started, Peter excused himself. His head was pounding and his bladder was screaming for mercy. From his days at William Morris, he'd developed an appreciation for executive privilege and an understanding of when best to use it. Having a private washroom might have seemed over the top these days, in a city whose billionaire mayor had a cubicle in the center of a busy bullpen, but it was one of the very few perks that Peter had insisted on for himself.

Before he left, he instructed Diana to get on the next call without him – he'd join in as soon as he was finished.

Peter took care of business, downed a couple of Advil and contemplated skipping the video conference with the BMI reps. This was Diana's sweet spot; she'd begun to make a name for herself as a hardnosed negotiator for streaming rights and royalty payments, and he felt comfortable leaving the discussions in her hands. At least for the moment.

Instead of heading back to the conference room, he went towards his office, stopping at Blake's desk for any updates and messages. To his surprise, Blake told him there were two people waiting for him – Evan Leary, his soon-to-be intern, and Chloe Woods.

"I've put them in the small conference room. The kids were adamant that they would wait until you were free."

"Did they say what they wanted?" Peter had no clue why these two would need to see him.

"No, but they said it was very important." Blake grimaced. "I would have told them to make an appointment, but I saw _Circumspect_ last night and I recognized the girl. I figured that the boy was the one who'd made the YouTube vid that went viral. Thought you might want to see them sooner, rather than later. Did I do the right thing?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah – it's okay." He dropped the stack of messages he'd picked up from Blake's desk and headed into the small conference room off of his office. The two kids in their school uniforms – red jackets with gold Manhattan Prep patches and red and gold striped ties – looked like refugees from Hogwarts.

They both looked up when he entered; Chloe was smiling but Evan seemed anxious and upset. "I'm told you needed to talk to me – that it was 'very important'. What's the matter?"

Chloe opened her mouth, but Evan shushed her. "I think I'm in trouble and I need your help."

"Okay." Unsure how he could help, Peter sat down and listened to the boy telling his story. The remnants of his hangover were burned away by his growing anger. The story was so outrageous, and yet, given what he'd learned about Callaway, and Phillip Kramer's well publicized crusade against "deviant" behavior, it wasn't surprising. 

"Phillip Kramer and the headmaster, Amanda Callaway, asked you to lie to the police, to make a false accusation that your history teacher tried to molest you?"

Evan nodded. "I recorded everything."

"You did?"

"Yeah – the school secretary, when she came to take me into the meeting, said she was told to tell me to leave my phone in my locker. So I had to think, why would they want me to leave my phone behind? What where they hiding? So I went into the boys' room, set it to record and I taped the whole thing." Evan backed up his words when he pulled out an iPhone. A few swipes and Callaway's voice filled the small room.

_"You are going to go to the police and you're going to tell them that Neal Caffrey touched you inappropriately."_

The conversation took on a surreal tone as Callaway gave Evan ideas about what he should say, and then Kramer telling her "not to be crude."

The recording ended a few minutes later, with Kramer urging Evan to do the right thing.

"I don't know what to do, Mr. Burke. I can't lie to the police and get Mr. Caffrey in trouble, but if the school demands my scholarship money back, and fees and damages, my folks will be ruined." 

The poor kid was almost on the verge of hysteria, and Peter needed to calm him down. "First of all, neither the headmaster nor Mr. Kramer can officially speak for the Board of Governors." Peter carefully backed the recording up to where Evan had read the infamous Paragraph 19. _" In the event that the Board of Governors determines that the student has violated this clause, the student shall be expelled from Manhattan Preparatory Academy and be required to refund all scholarship funds, plus damages in an amount deemed appropriate by the Board of Governors."_

He paused the recording and pointed out, "This is a decision of the Board of Governors and there are five members on that board. Mr. Kramer is one person."

"But he said he'd be president of the Board by next year."

Peter had caught that. "That is a complete and total fabrication, Evan. The current president still has three years left in his term and will likely be reelected. You should also know that Mr. Bancroft – "

Chloe interrupted and smacked Evan's shoulder. "He gave an interview for _Circumspect_ yesterday!" 

"Yes, he did. Mr. Bancroft has come firmly down in support of Dignity for All and he knows all about your video. He's very angry at Mr. Kramer." Peter didn't need to tell Evan and Chloe just how angry. Sunday night, Kyle had sent him an email detailing Phillip Kramer's financial chicanery. The huge endowment he'd promised, the one that got him a seat on the Board, had never been funded. More than half-drunk, Peter had read the email and shrugged. Last night, his feelings were too tied up with his stupid pride to realize just what this meant, but now he did. "I don't think you need to worry about being expelled or being forced to return your scholarship money."

Evan took a deep breath and nodded, but the worry didn't disappear from his face. "What about Mr. Caffrey, though? They're out to get him and that's not right. Just because he stood up for Chloe."

Peter asked, "Can I have a copy of the recording?"

"Sure." Evan asked him for his email address. "I'll send you a Dropbox link, okay?"

"That's fine." 

Evan asked, "Are you going to go to the police? Can you have Mr. Kramer and Principal Callaway arrested?"

Peter didn't know what he was going to do. "That's one option, but I think I'll take this to Mr. Bancroft, first."

Chloe was fierce. "They should go to jail – and not for what they tried to do to me, but for trying to hurt Evan and Mr. Caffrey. Why shouldn't they suffer?"

"I agree, they should – but that's probably not your decision or mine. Evan, do you want me to take this to the police?"

The kid shook his head. "I don't know. I don't want it swept under the rug, but I don't want the school to be hurt, either. And that could happen, right?"

"Yes – there's been some bad publicity and there will be more. You did nothing wrong, but there might be people who don't see things like that. And Mr. Caffrey – " Peter swallowed, trying not to feel sick at the thought of Neal, as well as Neal's reaction to this. "- might not want to be in the spotlight again, either."

"Okay. But can I be here when you talk with Mr. Bancroft?" 

Chloe added, "Can we both?" 

Peter smiled and promised them that they could, if at all possible. "Let me go back to my office and tell Mr. Bancroft about the recording. I'll see if he wants to come here and talk with you, okay?"

The kids nodded in unison and hugged each other. Under different circumstances, Peter might have thought them too adorable for words.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal had taken Bancroft's advice and didn't go to work. 

June was due back from Boston tonight, but she knew what was going on. Neal had called her before going with Peter to the television station, to warn her that there might be some unpleasant publicity. His godmother had laughed and told him not to worry. She'd send Tiny Carl and Esteban, the bouncers she used on busy Saturday nights, to keep watch on the house.

Pity that neither of them had thought about "Nicole".

When Neal got home, he found Tiny and Esteban relaxing in a pair of beach chairs in front of the house, enjoying a paid day of April sunshine. They waved and Neal waved back, because as tired as he was, he couldn't be rude.

Marthé greeted him with concern and too much French; it was the middle of a school day and this was the last place he was supposed to be. Neal just said he was really feeling unwell and he just needed to rest. He had no clue whether Marthé had seen the interview last night, but since she didn't comment, he figured she hadn't. That wouldn't last – the incident made the front page of the New York Times Metro section and eventually everyone would see it.

As he let himself into his apartment, his phone buzzed with an incoming text and he checked the screen. It was from Elizabeth. He hadn't talked to her since Saturday morning, when he gave her the rundown on his confrontation with Callaway. He hadn't alerted her to the _Circumspect_ interview and she was dying for information.

Neal sent a reply, _"Kind of exhausted, just got put through the mill by the school's attorneys. Everything's ok. Just need some sleep. Talk later."_

He put the phone into vibrate mode and stripped to his skin before crawling into his unmade bed. Like last night, sleep was elusive. He kept hearing Peter's voice, accusing him, treating him like some sort of criminal. That had been Vincent's mode, too. Vincent would find something that he'd done wrong and spend hours tearing him apart, destroying him from the inside out. Humiliating him, belittling him, and when he was done with the words, he'd start with the belts and the fists and …

 _No_. Neal ruthlessly shut his mind against those memories. As bad as Peter was, he wasn't in Vincent's league. Not even close. Peter wasn't a sadist.

Which wasn't saying that he wasn't a judgmental bastard.

And beautiful. And smart. And other than being a judgmental bastard, Peter Burke was everything he'd ever wanted in a man. Someone who could be strong without needing to control his every thought. Someone who'd challenge him to be better, to be smarter, to do the right thing because it _was_ the right thing, not because he might get ahead of the game.

But Peter was still a judgmental bastard who knew how to flay him with a few carefully chosen words, and Neal wasn't going to go through that again. 

Although he was alone, there was a pleasant background hum. The fridge in his small kitchen area vibrated when the compressor was going, and it sent the old windows vibrating in a C-major chord. In the distance, he could hear a vacuum cleaner and the sounds of a salsa playing, which meant that Carmen was on the third floor. A sharp bark, and then a few more in quick succession told Neal that June was home and Bugsy was reasserting his place in the house.

All of these noises were familiar, beloved, restful. They lulled him, they comforted him, and just before Neal fell asleep, he promised himself that after today, there would be no more wallowing. Whatever he could have had with Peter just wasn't meant to be, and there was no point in dwelling on it.

A sharp clatter, followed by insistent buzzing, woke Neal from a sound sleep. He opened his eyes and tracked the source of the unpleasant noise – it was his cell phone, which had vibrated itself off the nightstand and onto the floor. It took some effort, but he managed to retrieve it. The call was from a 212 number, which meant someone's landline. The phone stopped ringing and the telephone number was replaced with the call log. Neal flicked through the list; the 212 number appeared about a half-dozen times over the last half-hour. At the bottom on the list was a call from someone in his contact list.

Peter.

Before Neal could listen to the voice messages, his phone rang again. It was the same 212 number.

"Hello?"

_"Caffrey – thank god you've finally answered."_

"Mr. Bancroft? What's the matter?"

The man was abrupt. _"There's been some developments. You'll need to come back to the office where you gave your statement this morning."_

"Developments? What kind of developments?"

_"Look, when can you get here?"_

Neal wiped his eyes. If there was something going on, he probably shouldn't show up half asleep. "An hour?"

 _"Okay, that'll have to do."_

Neal could hear someone in the background. It sounded like Peter. "Do I need a lawyer?"

 _"No – not at all. You have nothing to worry about. Just get here as soon as you can."_

Bancroft ended the call and Neal stared at his phone for a few seconds. Despite the other man's words, Neal still worried. But sitting here wasn't going to resolve anything. 

He took a quick shower and shaved again, but his eyes felt gritty and dry – a signal that he'd been wearing his contacts too long. He popped out his contacts and put on his glasses, then headed to his closet. For some reason, he didn't think chinos, a button down, and a sport coat were appropriate. He pulled out one of Byron's suits – not the black one he'd worn the night he met Peter, but a Baltic blue St. Laurent that was probably far too expensive for a mere teacher, but wearing it had always made Neal feel strong. June had once told him that Byron had worn it the last time he'd taken her dancing, and Neal liked to believe that it was the love imbued in the fabric that gave him strength.

It was a little before two when Neal headed downstairs, where he found June flipping through the mail that had accumulated over the weekend. She looked up when he entered. "Neal, Marthé told me you were home in the middle of the day. Is everything all right?"

"I had to give a statement this morning at the school's lawyers' office and I was too fried to go teach for the rest of the day. And don't worry – the president of the Board of Governors was the one to insist I take the rest of the day off."

June walked over to him. "I'm not worried that you've missed a day of teaching, I'm worried about you. I saw the interview last night, and now I hear you needed to make an official statement. And it looks like you've got another important appointment." She patted the collar of his jacket, smoothing the fine wool. "And you're wearing this suit. Of course I'm concerned. What's going on?"

"I don't know. I just got a call that I have to go back to the lawyers' office."

"Do you need me to go with you? Should I call Hale?"

Neal kissed June's cheek. "No need to send for the lawyers, yet. And I think I can handle this, but would it be possible to get Frederick to drive me to Midtown?"

"Of course, my dear." June picked up the house phone and called the chauffeur, asking him to bring the car around immediately. "Just let me know if you need me, for anything."

"I will, and thank you." 

June walked with him to the front door and Neal could feel the weight of her love and worry. It was a welcome burden.

The trip back down to the lawyers' offices took a lot longer than expected, which meant that Neal arrived thirty minutes later than the promised hour. Despite his own words to June, and Bancroft's comments to him, he couldn't help but worry. And then there was the niggling suspicion that Peter was involved. He might have resolved not to beg Peter to forgive him, but that would be a lot easier if he didn't see Peter.

The car pulled up to the building and Neal let Frederick do the whole chauffeur thing, if just to buy him a little time.

To his surprise, when he went to sign in, there was someone from the law firm waiting for him. "Mr. Caffrey, please come with me." The woman took him to a different floor and led him through a small warren of cubicles, into a room that looked a lot like the television studio control room where his life had fallen apart. "Please take a seat. I'd offer you coffee, but beverages are strictly prohibited in this room."

Neal nodded. "Okay, but will someone tell me what's going on?"

The woman smiled, and oddly, he wasn't comforted. "Someone will be here in a few minutes." With that, she left.

Neal suppressed the urge to fiddle with the control panels; instead, he took out his phone and sent Elizabeth a quick text. _Back at the lawyers U free for dinner 2nite?_ As he pressed send, someone came into the room, but it was no one he recognized.

The woman asked, "Would you mind scooting over a little, I've got to get this up and running."

Neal complied and watched in fascination as she worked the switches and touch panels like she was at the helm of the Enterprise. The screens above the console came to life, displaying an empty conference room – the same one that Neal had spent a few hours in earlier in the day. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he was here and what was going on.

The door behind him opened and, to his relief, it was Bancroft. "Thank you for coming back, Neal. And I'm sorry for the earlier melodrama."

"What's going on?"

"Amanda Callaway is coming in to give her statement."

"That's why you called me back? So I could hear her give her side of what happened on Friday?" Then Neal remembered. "You said that there were developments."

"There are – and ordinarily, we wouldn't have you listen to another statement, but there are things you need to hear."

"Like what?"

In the dimly lit room, it was hard to make out the expression on Bancroft's face, but Neal thought he saw disgust there. "I'm just going to let you listen."

"Okay." 

Someone else came into the room and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He knew, without turning around, that Peter had just joined them. But the sound of two excited – and familiar – voices shocked him.

"Hey, Mr. Caffrey!" Chloe was there, grinning from ear to ear. Of course, Evan was right behind her, but he was a little more subdued.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you in class?"

Chloe rolled her eyes, and as Evan started to answer, there was movement on the screen. It looked like Callaway had arrived, accompanied by someone. That pair was followed by the two attorneys who'd grilled Neal this morning.

Neal wanted to ask some more questions, but Bancroft gave him a brief and reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. "I need to go. If you still have any questions after this, I'll be happy to answer them."

Neal sucked in a deep breath. Whatever was going on involved his students and somehow involved Peter. The kids flanked him, but Peter – thankfully – kept his distance.

The tech turned up the audio feed, just in time to hear the school's attorneys giving Callaway the same introduction he got this morning.

"This interview is being recorded using the four cameras in this room." One of the attorneys pointed to four wall-mounted cameras. "There is room audio." She pointed to the ceiling, to something that Neal couldn't see. "But for accuracy's sake, please be sure to speak into the microphones they're bringing in." 

Callaway's attorney, Terrance Pratt, grumbled, but Callaway herself actually twittered like an airhead. "So much technology, just for a routine statement?"

The older attorney, who'd been introduced to Neal as Garrett Fowler, gave her a thin smile and commented, "This is for your benefit as well as for the school's. It's become standard practice, and a lot more accurate than a stenographer."

A tech entered the room, followed by Bancroft, and set up a microphone at each position on the table. They completed the standard audio checks, the tech left, and Bancroft gestured for everyone to take a seat.

Neal was dying to know what was going on. He could ask Evan and Chloe, he could ask Peter, but there was a reason why Bancroft wanted him to watch and listen.

Introductions were made for the record and Fowler started by asking Callaway the same questions that he'd asked Neal, to describe the events on Friday.

To Neal's surprise, Callaway kept to the facts. He realized that she'd probably been very well coached by her attorney. After she'd finished, Fowler's line of questioning took a different tack. "What made you decide to confront Chloe Woods on Friday?"

"I'd just learned that _Charles_ Woods had been dressing up as a girl for many years and I found that situation both disturbing and dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"He was using the girls' toilet and gym facilities, he had access to our female students at their most vulnerable moments. I acted out of deep concern that Mr. Woods would use his illness as a cover to attack the very femininity that he is trying to mimic."

Neal felt Chloe stiffen in outrage, but then Evan reached over and wrapped an arm around her, whispering, "She's a stupid bitch, you're ten times the woman she is."

Callaway added self-righteously, "My only thought was to protect those girls, and the other children who would be hurt by Charles' deviant behavior, his sickness."

Bancroft leaned over and whispered something to Fowler, both men's hands carefully placed over their mics. Fowler nodded. "Why do you say that Ms. Woods is ill?"

"He's crazy – to think that he's really a girl. God gave him a penis; that means that God intended for him to be a boy. He's going against the will of God and nature."

"And anyone who acts contrary to what you term as "God's will" is crazy?"

Calloway puffed herself up. "Yes."

Bancroft and Fowler did the whole whispering thing again, but before Fowler could continue his questioning, Callaway started talking. "Look, I realize that I probably shouldn't have used a bullhorn when I was trying to educate Mr. Woods as to proper behavior, but I was moved to act with great urgency and the hallways were busy, and well, I'm just naturally such a soft-spoken person. I just wanted to make sure I was able to get my message across." Callaway turned to her attorney, and the tech at the console zoomed in on their faces. She seemed smug and a little triumphant, but the attorney was frowning.

Fowler followed up on Callaway's statement. "So, you didn't believe it would be more appropriate to, say, have Ms. Woods escorted to your office to have your discussion? You thought it was appropriate to address your issues in public?"

This time, Callaway and her attorney conferred, taking pains to cover their mouths, hiding from the camera. They finished and Callaway leaned forward. "As I said, I was concerned about the danger Mr. Woods represented to the female students, so I wanted to ensure as many people as possible knew just what this boy was doing and the danger he represented."

Fowler started to ask, "Why do you feel that – ", but Bancroft cut him off. The two men regrouped and Fowler refocused his questioning. "When you were a candidate for the position you currently hold, did you do any research on the school? Its history, its policies?"

"Of course I did."

"So, you were aware of the Dignity for All policy."

Callaway paused and glanced at her attorney, who nodded. "Yes."

"So you were aware that there was a policy in place that provided accommodations for transgender students."

"Yes, I was."

"Would it be fair to say that you personally believe that transgender students, such as Ms. Woods, represent a danger and should not be granted the accommodations in the Dignity for All policy? That you, personally, find transgender students disturbing and mentally ill?"

Callaway again eye-checked with her attorney. The man frowned but gestured for her to answer. "Yes. That is a fair statement."

"Then why, given your own personal bias and beliefs, would you take a job at an institution which has an established policy guaranteeing accommodations to transgender students?"

This time, Callaway didn't hesitate in her answer. "I was assured that this so-called Dignity policy would be revoked and those poor, twisted children would be removed from the school."

"And who gave you these assurances?"

Neal thought it interesting that Callaway's lawyer all but slapped a hand over his client's mouth. After a few moments of furious whispering, Callaway answered, "I elect not to answer that question."

For the first time, Bancroft spoke. "Ms. Callaway, let me remind you that the terms of your contract with Manhattan Preparatory Academy require you to cooperate fully with this investigation."

Callaway and her attorney consulted again, and still she refused to answer the question.

Fowler took back the reins of the interview. "Would it be correct to say that Phillip Kramer suggested that you apply for the position you currently hold?"

"Yes."

"How long have you known Phillip Kramer?"

"I was his student at the university I attended. Mr. Kramer taught a seminar there."

"Which university would that be, Ms. Callaway?"

"Liberty University."

Fowler paused to check a folder, then asked, "When did you attend this school?"

"From 1991 to 1995."

"You received a degree from Liberty University?"

"Yes."

"Your bachelor's degree?"

"Yes, in Communications and Social Influence."

"Hmmm, but your employment application states that from 1991 to 1995, you attended the Mercer University, in Georgia, and received a degree in Education. How is it that you managed to attend two different schools in two different states at the same time and get two completely different degrees?"

Callaway didn't answer.

"And according to your employment file, requests to verify your educational history were waived. By Phillip Kramer." Fowler commented, more to himself, "The problem with lying is that you need to remember who you lied to and when you lied."

Again, Callaway didn't respond. 

Fowler asked, "Liberty University is a Christian-centric school with a curriculum focused on fundamentalist beliefs, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you share those beliefs?"

"Yes."

"Why, then, did you apply for and accept a position at Manhattan Prep, which is an institution founded by secular humanists and is still committed to providing an education based on those principles? Was it because you were assured that there would be a change in policy?"

Callaway spat out, "Yes."

"By who, Ms. Callaway? Who assured you that the school would be reversing a century-old tradition of tolerance, inclusion and acceptance?"

Pratt, Callaway's attorney, finally stepped in. "These questions are outside of the scope of your investigation into the so-called incident on Friday. My client's education was deemed sufficient and acceptable by the Board of Governors. She was interviewed several times and the Board – of which Mr. Bancroft here is the head of – approved her hiring."

Bancroft replied, "Ms. Callaway was asked about her education, and at the time, she stated she was a graduate of Mercer University. She was asked about her positions on gender diversity and representation, and she did not indicate any of the beliefs or attitudes evidenced in her statements on Friday and what she's just said on record." Bancroft snagged the folder that Fowler had referred to several times and pulled out a piece of paper. "Like all employees, Ms. Callaway was required to read and confirm her acceptance of the Dignity for All policy. I was there when she signed it." Bancroft pushed the paper to Pratt. "If Ms. Callaway never intended to comply with this policy, she signed it in bad faith."

Neal watched the monitors with fascination. But he was still waiting for the "developments" that Bancroft had hinted at, the reason why his students were here. Why Peter was here.

He didn't have much longer to wait.

Pratt asked, "What are you getting at?"

"I think that Ms. Callaway's time at Manhattan Prep has to end."

"You can't fire me!"

Bancroft's lips twitched, as if he was trying not to smile. "I don't have to fire you."

"Only the Board can terminate my contract."

"And you don't think they won't? By your own words, you accepted employment under false pretenses. That puts your contract on very shaky grounds."

Callaway sat there, her chin jutting out. "I think I have all the support I need on the Board."

"Phillip Kramer is one man, he has one vote."

"He's not the only one who believes that the school needs to rethink its godless, liberal ways."

This time Bancroft did smile. "Warren Haskley retired this morning. As president of the Board of Governors, I can appoint an interim member to fill that vacancy until elections are held."

Callaway maintained her defiance. "You can't fire me. And I won't resign."

Fowler casually commented, "Even if the alternative is jail?"

That got Neal's attention. _Jail?_ As much as he liked the idea of putting Amanda Callaway in a place where she couldn't harm another child, her brand of bigotry was still protected by the First Amendment.

"What are you talking about?"

Fowler reached over to a console on the table and pressed a few buttons. His murmur, "I hope this fucking thing works" was clearly audible.

It did work. Callaway's voice filled the room.

 _"But that's not why we're here. As a scholarship student, you have certain obligations to the school."_.

 _"What do you mean?"_ To Neal's surprise, Evan's voice came through the audio system and Neal looked at his student, who was grinning, a sharp contrast to the confused tenor in the recording.

Neal listened as Callaway pointed out a paragraph in Evan's scholarship agreement, which Evan read out loud.

_"You're in big trouble, Mr. Leary."_

Fowler paused the playback. "Do you have anything to say, Ms. Callaway?"

The woman looked like she'd just swallowed a glass of vinegar.

Fowler pressed a button and playback resumed. There was a new voice, wheezing and unpleasant, a voice that Neal recognized from the few occasions that he'd listened to talk radio the past few years. It was Phillip Kramer.

_"Your little video has badly damaged the reputation of this school, son."_

Neal heard Evan defending himself, then Kramer again. The man could have been reading Keats' "She Walks in Beauty" but that voice was enough to make Neal want to puncture his own eardrums.

Callaway's lawyer interrupted the playback. "What is the point of this?"

Bancroft bluntly stated, "Your client is a liar and a bully."

"What you call bullying I'd say is protecting the interests of her employer. And so she lied on her employment application, that's not a criminal offense. And this – " The man gestured to the audio control console. "This is meaningless. My client's rights were violated by whoever recorded this conversation."

Fowler replied, "You should brush up on your New York wiretap law, Pratt. In this state, only one party present has to give consent to the recording."

Callaway lost it, "Which means that little fag-loving twerp recorded this! He was told to leave his phone in his locker!" 

Fowler let out a gusty sigh. "Control your client. And you're also wrong about lying on a job application not being a criminal offense. It's fraud. She lied about her educational qualifications to secure a position that she wouldn't otherwise have been considered for. She lied about her intentions to uphold established school policies. Your client received compensation for services she had no intention of performing. But I'll be honest, fraud charges are the least of Ms. Callaway's problems." Fowler restarted the playback.

_"Mr. Leary, we're not trying to frighten you, or force you to leave the school. We want you to do the right thing."_

Neal almost fell out of his chair when Callaway said his name. _"Mr. Caffrey is one of your teachers, right?"_ Over the rapid beating of his heart, Neal could barely hear Evan's reply.

But then he almost laughed; Callaway called him a "disgusting pervert, a dirty faggot who goes around dressing in women's clothes." The woman was practically a cartoon parody of a homophobe. What he heard next, however, killed all humor. 

Kramer more than implied that he had some sort of sexual interest in Evan. Evan, thank god, vehemently denied it.

Callaway's next words chilled him to the bone. _"You are going to go to the police and you're going to tell them that Neal Caffrey touched you inappropriately."_

Neal looked at Evan, who was biting his lip. "I'm sorry about this, Mr. Caffrey. I had no idea that this would happen."

Chloe was the voice of reason. "It's okay, Evan. You didn't do anything wrong. You did everything right."

Neal nodded. Whatever brought them to this room was the right thing. The recording continued to play, and Kramer and Callaway laid out what they wanted Evan to do and why. It finally came to an end and Neal felt like throwing up – those bastards wanted to destroy him and they had the nerve to tell Evan to "do the right thing." But he took a few deep breaths and tried to concentrate on the drama playing out in a conference room several floors away.

"Now, I'm not a criminal attorney, but I have friends in the U.S. Attorney's office and with the Manhattan D.A., and I think they'd tell me that what I just heard was a criminal conspiracy – conspiracy to file a false police report, blackmail, intent to commit theft. And since I believe Mr. Leary's scholarship for a single year is more than ten thousand dollars, that's within Federal jurisdiction and a felony." Fowler was leaning back in his chair, as if he didn't care what Callaway's answer would be.

Callaway opened her mouth, but her lawyer was quick to step in with his own terms. "My client will admit to nothing, but she will resign at the end of the school year. You will pay her the balance of her contract and she will agree not to speak to the media about the events of last Friday or her decision to resign her position as Headmaster of Manhattan Prep. If anyone – whether it's the news media or a future employer - enquires, the official response will be that the decision was amicable and jointly made, and the school regrets the departure of such a talented administrator."

Bancroft took over. "Actually, your client will resign effective immediately. She will not be permitted back on school premises. She will receive her salary earned through today as well as any accrued vacation pay. Her benefits will terminate immediately. She will keep her mouth shut about everything she's done. The school will confirm her dates of employment and salary for any future employers, and will be free to comment on the terms of separation if it so chooses. If she does not agree to these terms, I will be more than happy to turn this recording over to the F.B.I. My own friends in the Justice Department tell me that something like this could even bring a RICO charge. And you know how much the U.S. Attorney loves to make a splash those racketeering and corruption cases." Bancroft picked up another file and handed it to Pratt. "Ms. Callaway's letter of resignation. She signs it here, she signs it now. Or I give the recording to the Feds and this all goes public."

Neal watched as Callaway and her attorney reviewed the document. He held his breath as Callaway scrawled her name across the bottom of the page. She pushed the folder back across the conference table and knocked over the microphone, sending a piercing feedback whine through the control room, and then stood up so abruptly, her chair crashed to the floor. "Let's get out of here." 

Pratt shook his head at his client's less than lady-like behavior, and said, "Messenger over a copy." 

Fowler nodded and as soon as the door shut behind the pair, he spoke into his own mic. "Bobbi, tell me you got everything, no glitches."

Bobbi – who was the tech in the control room – replied, "Got it all, no glitches."

"Excellent – can you bring everyone up to the conference room?"

"Sure thing, Mr. F."

Bobbi powered down the equipment and asked everyone to come with her; they needed to go up to the twenty-first floor. Neal, his head still spinning from everything he had seen and heard, followed. Or he would have, except Peter stopped him. 

"Neal, can we talk?"

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

The last hour had been an exquisite torture. Being in the same room with Neal, he was so close to him, and yet it felt like there was an ocean's worth of distance between them. That was his fault, all his fault.

Peter didn't give the drama on the monitors his full attention. Callaway's interview was a mere formality, conducted mostly to satisfy Bancroft's desire to show Evan and Chloe that their school believed that justice wasn't just for the rich and the powerful. And that it would be better than revenge. Chloe Woods had a spine of steel and, to everyone's surprise, insisted that they take the recording Evan had made to the reporter, Helen Anderson, and let her air it as a follow up. She wanted to humiliate Callaway as much as possible – as she'd put it, shine a light so bright on her ignorance and bigotry that not even a cockroach could hide.

Bancroft, though, urged moderation, but left the decision up to Evan. He was – in this instance – the victim of a crime and he should have the right to choose how to go forward. The kid asked a whole bunch of questions, about what would happen if he went to the police, or if he did as Chloe urged, and went to the media. Would his scholarship be at risk? How would that affect his future, his parents, and what about Mr. Caffrey? Shouldn't he have a say in the matter, too?

Bancroft patiently answered the boy's questions as thoroughly as he could, assuring him that his scholarship was never, ever at risk. He then suggested some alternatives, ones that would get Callaway out with the maximum amount of efficiency and the highest yield of humiliation. Which was why they'd spent the last hour in a dark room. 

He had to admit, it was satisfying to watch Bancroft and Fowler take that woman apart. She must have been a better actor back when she had been interviewed for the Headmaster position, because Peter couldn't understand how anyone would think she was compatible with Manhattan Prep's educational mission. Or perhaps the Board had been too blinded by the promise of Phillip Kramer's money to see the truth.

The kids were ebullient as they followed the tech, Bobbi, out of the control room, and Peter seized the opportunity and grabbed Neal's arm as he passed. 

"Neal, can we talk?"

To his relief, Neal didn't shake him off and leave. But his voice was cold when he said, "What more do we have to talk about? You made yourself very clear last night."

Peter pulled him back into the control room and closed the door. "I'm sorry. I was a jackass yesterday, last night, and I'm sorry."

His apology caught Neal by surprise, but Neal wasn't giving him any quarter. "Yes, you were."

"You caught me by surprise and I overreacted."

Neal sighed. "I have the feeling that that happens quite often with you."

"What does?"

"You overreact and lash out."

Peter's first instinct was to deny that, but as he thought about it, Neal was right. He rarely got angry, but when he did, he wasn't the slow-burn type. It happened in a flash and was over. "Maybe I do." It was a galling thing to admit.

Neal didn't say anything, he just looked at him.

"You're not going to forgive me, are you?"

"I – I want to."

"But?" 

Neal was staring at some point over his shoulder and Peter just wanted to shake him. Or kiss him.

Then, Neal spoke. The quiet intensity made the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand up. 

"For five years, I was in a relationship with someone who had an unpredictable temper. Or at least, he had a temper and liked to pretend it was uncontrollable. I suspect he was in complete control and just enjoyed the power his rages brought." Neal shook himself. "You don't have to tell me that you're not like that. I know, and I know I fucked things up when I didn't tell you that I was the singer you were so enamored of."

"Neal – "

"Peter, let me finish. Like I said, I want to forgive you, but if I did, I think I'd be right back to where I was when I was with Vincent. Weak, needy, helpless, wanting to please because I didn't want to be afraid, because I didn't want to get hurt anymore."

"I'd never hurt you, I'd never, _ever_ lift a hand to you. Or to anyone."

"I know that, too. But in my head, I think I'll always be afraid. I can't trust myself not to fall back into that pit, desperately needing to please you, afraid of what would happen if I didn't."

Peter didn't know what to say.

"Remember what I told you, that first night, when we went up to my apartment at June's? That I was pretty fucked up? I wasn't lying."

Peter swallowed and found his voice. "You don't want to try and make something work?"

"If I said I didn't, I'd be lying. But you have to understand, it's too much of a risk."

"And promising that it would never happen again would be pointless. Because that's what abusers do, don't they?"

Neal gave him a puzzled look. "I never said I was abused, Peter."

"But you were. From everything you've told me, it's pretty clear that this Vincent – he abused you."

Neal shrugged, but Peter could see how this idea affected him.

"I'm sorry, Neal. Sorrier than I can say – I let my pride ruin something wonderful." He was heartsick.

"You're not the only one at fault. I lied to you."

"Lied? No, I don't think so. Maybe you omitted some critical facts, but you didn't lie."

"I should have told you about Nicole when you first mentioned her. It might have saved us a lot of grief."

Peter had to ask, "Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. She's not 'me', but your praise was … flattering."

"I wasn't flattering. Everything I said was true. She could be a superstar. _You_ could be a superstar. That's what I thought, from the first minute I heard you."

"No, Peter. That's not what I want. Maybe I was tempted for a few seconds – and like I said, I was flattered by your enthusiasm. But I love being a teacher, I love it a universe more than I love getting on stage and pretending to be someone else."

"I understand." He did. "I should have understood that yesterday, when you looked at that picture, the one the reporter found. I know just how dedicated you are, but I let my pride get in the way of my heart." Peter shook his head. "Want to hear something funny?"

"What?"

"When I saw you, when I heard you sing, I got aroused. You turned me on and I had a quiet freak out, because here was this gorgeous woman giving me a hard-on. How funny is that?"

Neal ducked his head. "Sorry."

"No, you're not. You find it funny, too. Admit it."

Neal looked up, and he was smiling. "Okay, yeah – it's kind of funny."

"Pity I couldn't stay for the second act. As much as I was entranced by Nicole, I might have jumped the stage for Nick."

Neal just shook his head.

"But none of this makes a difference, does it?"

"No, it can't."

Peter scrubbed his face, suddenly weary. "I understand. But if you ever change your mind – about anything – call me. If you need anything, ever, just call me. Please?"

"I will, I promise."

Peter wasn't sure he believed him, but at least he could hope. Neal turned to leave, but Peter had one more thing to say. "Don't ever believe you're worth anything less than the best, because that is what you are. You're strong and you're smart and there is no one who deserves happiness more than you do."

Before Neal could leave, Peter leaned over and kissed him softly, on the cheek. "Take care of yourself."


	7. Chapter 7

"Neal?" Elizabeth nudged him. "Earth to Neal. Come in, Neal."

"What?"

"You were spacing out."

"Sorry, just lost in thought."

"Obviously." They were walking down Riverside Drive. It was Sunday, sunny, and a perfectly nice day for a post-graduation stroll. Elizabeth asked him, "So, how does it feel to be 'Teacher of the Year'?"

Neal looked down at the small plaque he was holding. It had been given to him at the graduation ceremony they'd just escaped from, and he shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Wasn't expecting it."

"I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."

"I'm really not into popularity contests."

"Teacher of the Year isn't like being voted as Prom King. It's not just the students who vote, it's the teachers and the administrators, too."

"Huh, I didn't know that."

El was merciless. "And I've heard, through the grapevine, that the vote was just about unanimous. Like it or not, you're a hero."

Neal protested that title, like he had a hundred times before. "I'm not a hero. I just did - "

"What you thought was right, what anyone else would do. I've heard that from you before, and as I've said before, no one else had the balls to stand up to that bitch but you. If they had, they'd have gotten the award. So sit back and enjoy the laurels. You earned them."

"Thanks. I guess."

"Moz has a saying … "

"Moz has a lot of sayings."

"But this one's particularly relevant. 'Don't live your life in vain regret'. And he's right."

"Why do you think I'm - what did you say - living my life in vain regret?"

"Because I can see how sad you are. You're going through each day like a robot. Something's missing from the Neal Caffrey I know and love."

Neal ground his jaw and swallowed the pain. "I'm fine, El. There's nothing wrong."

"Then why aren't you happy?"

"I'm not unhappy."

"There's a world of difference between being happy and being not-unhappy. Nothing makes you smile."

Neal deliberately relaxed the muscles in his face and grinned. "There, I'm smiling."

"No, you're faking it."

They turned the corner onto 129th Street and went into the old coffee shop. A little past two on a Sunday and the place was deserted. Too late for churchgoers and too early for the post-brunch crowd, not that the place was frequented by too many brunch eaters.

Someone had placed a sign "Section Closed" in front of the booths where they normally parked themselves, so he and El sat at the counter. The line cook came out of the back and pushed cups of coffee at them. "No food until four, unless you want toast."

Neal took a cautious sip, tried not to grimace at the burnt taste of the brew and said, "No, we're good." As the man walked away, he emptied half a pitcher of milk and six packets of sugar into the cup, to make it palatable. El used the rest of the milk and almost twice as much sugar.

And she didn't let up on him. "You don't have to be miserable."

Of course, he insisted, "I'm not miserable. I'm just fine."

"Call him, Neal."

Neal toyed with the napkin, concentrating on turning it into a flower. "No."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"He apologized."

"Vincent used to apologize. At least in the beginning."

"You said that Peter wasn't like that bastard. You told me that he wouldn't hurt you." El was one of the very few people he'd told the whole truth about his time with Vincent.

"Not like that. No, Peter would never hit me. But he has a temper."

"News flash, so do you. And so do I. Moz has a temper, but that doesn't mean he's going to hurt me. I trust him."

Neal kept folding the napkin. It wasn't perfect, but it was beginning to look like a calla lily.

"Are you really afraid of Peter Burke? You don't trust him?"

Neal crumpled the flower and dropped it into his half-empty cup. "No, I don't trust myself. What if I go back to being that guy? That weak, spineless, needy man-child who was too stupid to walk away until he almost couldn't walk at all?"

"Neal…" El reached out and rested a hand on top of his.

"Don't. Don't pity me, don't tell me that Peter isn't Vincent, and even if he is - that I'm too strong, too smart to get caught up in another situation like that." 

"You are. And I don't understand you at all. You stand up for everyone else, but you can't stand up for yourself and what you really want. You have friends here. Family, too. People who love you and who wouldn't hesitate to intervene if they thought you were being hurt. And remember, you're not without your own power. You can hurt Peter, you can make him happy, too."

Neal looked at the sodden brown mess in his coffee cup and thought that it was a perfect metaphor for his life. So he changed the subject. "I'm performing at the club on Thursday night."

"Excellent. Moz and I will be there, of course."

"But it's the last time."

"Neal, no! Why?"

"I can't live in two worlds. I'm a teacher. I'm not ashamed of performing in drag, but it's not really who I am. If I want to sing, I can join a choral group, but the nightclub act is over."

"Not because of what happened?"

Neal shook his head. "No, not really. I just don't want to hide like that. If I wanted a music career, I'd go after it. It's just that I can't live half a life, and even if I'm only performing a few times a year, it's still a distraction."

"You could just go on stage as Nick. No reason why you couldn't. You're a beautiful man with a beautiful voice. If you don't want to deal with Nicole's theatricality, just be the suave, slightly dangerous, extremely sexy Nick."

El's idea was sensible. "Maybe. I'll think about it." Neal smiled, and this time the expression was genuine. "So, have you and Moz firmed up your plans for the summer?"

"Yup. Moz is flying us up to his cabin in Michigan for most of July, then a road trip to Seattle." 

"More pot?"

Elizabeth snickered. "It's legal in Washington State, and I love Seattle. What about you?"

"Don't really know. Thought about doing a road trip of my own, maybe the Southwest. But Hughes asked me to stay in New York and work with him on getting the school back on track."

"He's grooming you, you realize. A few years and you'll be ready to step into his shoes."

"I don't mind. It's a good future." Two days after Callaway's forced resignation, the entire school - students, teachers, administrators and staff - were required to report to Manhattan Prep's vast auditorium. Bancroft was on the stage and behind him was the entire Board of Governors, including Peter and Leland Shelton, the man who owned half of New York's local media operations, and Helen Anderson's boss. Notable in his absence was Phillip Kramer, and Neal figured that Shelton was the asshole's replacement.

Bancroft had spoken briefly and eloquently about the school and the duty that the Board owed to the students, the teachers, the staff, and to the legacy of Manhattan Prep as a bastion on secular education. He actually apologized on behalf of the Board for forgetting that, for letting their collective vision become clouded by the promises that were never intended to be kept. And then he moved on to happier subjects: the abrupt departure of Principal Callaway left a vacancy that needed to be quickly and carefully filled. At that moment, Reese Hughes came onto the stage and the audience had burst into cheers.

Hughes let everyone express their happiness at his return, and after two full minutes of hearing his name chanted, he quieted the audience with a single gesture. He spoke for only a few moments, in his typical no-nonsense fashion, telling everyone that they had work to do and there'd be no more of the bigoted bullshit that had been going on since he retired - the first time. He'd make sure of it.

"You want to get out of here?" El dropped some cash on the counter and they headed back out into the afternoon sunshine, Neal carrying the plaque that meant more to him than he was prepared to admit.

"Yeah. It's June's birthday, and I'm taking her dancing at the Starlight tonight."

"Give her a hug from me, okay?"

"I will. Maybe you and Moz could come over for dinner next Friday?" 

"That sounds like fun. It'll be nice to get my fuzzy bear into something less hipsterish than worn plaids and chinos with frayed cuffs."

Neal leaned over and kissed El's cheek. "See you then."

El kissed him back and reminded him, "Actually, I'll see you on Thursday, at the club."

"Right. Till then." Neal watched as Elizabeth headed towards the downtown subway. He could have gone with her and gotten off in three stops, but the day was too nice to be underground and he walked home.

As he walked, El's words kept repeating inside his head. _" And remember, you're not without your own power. You can hurt Peter, you can make him happy, too."_

The truth of that statement hit him. Not like a fist to the face, but like dawn in the desert. He could see Peter's face when they'd last talked - the hope, the love, the worry. There was shame there, too - for the damage he'd done. Neal could also see how his own words stifled Peter's hope, turned it not to anger, but to resigned acceptance.

He was the one who had the power in this relationship. No, they both had power. Not merely the power to hurt each other, but the power to make each other - and themselves - happy.

Neal stood at the corner of 100th and Riverside, about a dozen blocks from home, and let the world flow around him as he made plans. It all might crash and burn, but unless he took this chance, he'd never know if he could have more than this closed off life. Yes, he was safe, but having briefly tasted happiness, he wanted more than safety.

He wanted love.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Blake brought in a cup of espresso and the news that Julian Larsen was in the office and would like to see him.

Peter told his admin to show his client in, but give him a few minutes first. He took a careful sip of the coffee and prayed that Julian's presence didn't require the firm to go into DEFCON-4 mode again. He was due to leave for a well-earned vacation in a few days. A week in Belize, at a friend's ocean side villa. No cellphone, no laptop, no clients, no problems. Just blue skies, sunshine, endless white sand beaches, and Nelson DeMille's latest thriller. 

He would use the time to think about what he wanted from his life. Yes, he was fifty, in good health; he owned a business that had brought him wealth and professional satisfaction. But his time with Neal - a little more than a week from start to finish - had shown him just what was missing in his life.

Before Neal, relationships were more of an annoyance than anything. He shied away from even the mildest hint of something long term. He was too busy, too driven to waste time seeing to another person's emotional needs. But the truth was, he was simply too stupid to realize that without someone to share his life, all of his success was pointless. He was too old to club hop, as if that lifestyle held any appeal. Random hook-ups were not him, and apparently, neither were no-strings attached, friends-with-benefits relationships either. David had come back to town - not permanently, just for a week of meetings - and suggested that they get together. Dinner was pleasant, but when David suggested a nightcap and maybe something more at his hotel suite, Peter declined.

David seemed to take the rejection with good grace. He kissed Peter on the cheek and left him with the bill. Peter figured that this was probably the last time he'd see the other man and he was surprised how little the thought bothered him.

He knew he didn't want to spend the rest of his life alone, but the thought of spending it with someone who wasn't Neal was even less palatable. Maybe that would change in time. He hoped so.

He finished the espresso just as Blake brought Julian in.

"Peter!"

He stood up and was surprised when the other man, who'd never been the touchy-feely sort, gave him a tight hug. He stepped back and looked at Julian. He'd always been fit, but a quarter-century of rock 'n roll living took its toll on his face. Or rather, had once taken its toll. Julian looked twenty years younger than he had when he'd walked out the door nearly three months ago. He was tanned, clean shaven, the perpetual scowl he'd worn as long as Peter had known him was replaced by a wide smile. And more that than, Julian looked happy.

"How were your travels? Or do I have to ask?" Peter gestured for Julian to take a seat.

"It's that obvious?"

"Yeah, it is. So - where have you been and what's been going on?"

"You know I wanted to go off the grid, get as far away from the media as possible, so I went to Australia."

"They still have newspapers in Australia. And the paparazzi there can be more ruthless than they are here in the U.S."

"Not in the Outback."

Peter's jaw dropped. "Seriously?"

Julian nodded.

"I guess you really meant it when you said you were going off the grid."

"Yeah, it was a completely surreal experience."

"So, tell me, did you spend three months herding sheep?"

"God, no! Lasted on the station a little more than a week before I booked out of there. There's only so much g'day-ing and Fosters a sane man can take."

Peter laughed. "You big phony."

Julian got serious, though. "Not anymore."

That stopped Peter cold in his tracks. "Really?"

Julian nodded.

"What made you change your mind, after all these years?" 

"I met someone. Someone who doesn't believe in living a lie, who doesn't need to live a lie. He's out and proud and it doesn't make one bit of difference in his life."

Peter had long given up hope that Julian would see that there was no shame in being gay, even if he was a rock god. "How did he manage to teach you that?"

"By example."

Peter stared at Julian, who stared right back, his smile now cast in mischievous lines. "No."

"Yes."

"You and Gordon Taylor?"

Julian leaned back in his chair, a full-fledged smirk on his face. "I always knew you were quick."

"It wasn't hard to figure out. It was either Gordon Taylor or Adam Lambert, and Adam's been touring in South America. Gordon's Australian, and he's been playing small venues there while gearing up for a new album and concert tour."

"That's how we met. Some of my old music school mates are in his backup band, and when I dropped in to say hello, I got an introduction."

"Some introduction."

Julian shrugged. "We're keeping it low key for now, but if we're outed, we're outed. I don't care."

Peter shook his head. "I agree that you shouldn't care, but there's still going to be a bit of notoriety around anything you do."

"Yeah, probably. What do you suggest?"

"An interview with a friendly reporter. Get ahead of the story, because there will be stories. Not just because of you and Chantal and her accident, but Gordon's a big star and his personal life will be news, too. I know it's not fair to have your love life plastered all over the front page and the lead story on the nightly news, but it helps. This is a chance for you and Gordon to control the story."

"Just like Bruce Jenner."

"Exactly, and it's Caitlyn Jenner, now."

"Right, right. Of course."

"Did Gordon come to New York with you?"

"He'll be here in about three weeks. And just so you don't get an over-inflated sense of your own brilliance, Gordon pretty much said we should do exactly what you recommended. The new album drops in a month and he wants to do the whole announcement thing at the same time."

There was something in Julian's voice that sent Peter's gut rumbling, but not in a bad way. "The album, are you - perchance - performing on it?"

Julian laughed. "Okay, you are freaking brilliant. Gordon and I recorded a few new tracks after he finished it. We'd like to release them as an EP - or do they even do that anymore? Gordon said something about bonus tracks."

"You could do both - the bonus tracks for the digital release and then a separate CD with the new material."

"Good. Would like the proceeds to go to a charity, though. Not sure which. Is there one for old queer rockers who are finally sick and tired of hiding in the closet?"

Peter chuckled. "I'm sure we can find something appropriate. The labels will need their cut first, though." 

Julian stood up. "Okay, great. This is great. I guess I don't have to ask you to take care of those fucking bloodsuckers - the labels, I mean."

"No, you don't have to ask, and of course I will. I think you're going to be very surprised at how well your announcement goes over."

"I hope so." 

This time, Peter reached out and hugged Julian. "You deserve to be happy."

"You're damned right I do." Julian stepped back. "We'll get together when Gordon's in New York, and start planning this."

"Yeah." Peter rubbed the back of his neck and winced.

"What's the matter?"

"I was going on vacation - leaving Saturday for a week in the Caribbean. I probably should cancel and get the ball rolling on your interview."

"No, don't. You really look like you could use a break. And besides, you've got a staff - let them get the grunt work done. I'm just in for a few days to settle up things with Chantal's estate, getting the townhouse sold, then I'm going back to Sydney. There's nothing for you to do until we're ready."

Peter wasn't sure he agreed with that. There was going to be a lot of background work to do, but Julian was right in that he had a good staff and he needed to let them step up. 

He called Blake in to start setting things up and his admin gave him an envelope. "This just arrived by private courier."

Peter opened it, and to his surprise, he found a full color advertisement for this month's performances at _Ellington's_. His eyes skimmed to the bottom, to the last Thursday of the month, two days from today.

_Performing for the very last time - Nicole_

He stared at the card, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. Had Neal sent this? Was this his way of reaching out?

Unlikely. It probably came from June. He figured that Neal wouldn't have said anything to her about what an asshole her old friend, Peter Burke, was. And of course June knew he was interested in Nicole from a professional standpoint. This card was just a reminder.

But the tag, "for the very last time", troubled him. Was Neal giving her up? He couldn't imagine that the school would be pressuring him. Not now, not after everything. He could call Bancroft and ask, except that wasn't necessary. He'd see Bancroft tomorrow, at his first Board of Governors meeting. His appointment, and that of Leland Shelton - who'd stepped in when some not-so-gentle arm twisting pried Phillip Kramer's fat ass out of his seat – was all but confirmed. The vote tomorrow was a formality.

Peter checked his calendar for Thursday night and there were two appointments. One was an early dinner with executives from an industry group representing independent artists and the second was for a performance at Café Carlyle. He'd go to the dinner, since Neal - as Nicole - wouldn't take the stage until ten. The tickets for Alan Cummings' show would be gratefully accepted by Clinton.

He'd go and see Nicole, see Neal. His heart would likely bleed, but he wouldn't miss the chance for the world.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal hadn't been this nervous about performing, ever. Not even the first time he'd taken the stage as Nicole.

It was ironic - this was his last performance and his torso was swimming in flop sweat. The silver lamé dress was waiting for him, but it would have to wait until the very last minute. Otherwise, he'd be drenched before he stepped on stage.

A tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Yes?"

"It's me, June."

He told his godmother to come in. 

"How are you doing?"

"I'm a bit of a wreck." 

"You'll be fine." June knew that he wasn't really talking about his performance. Nor was she.

"How is it out there?"

"Biggest house we've had since Diana Krall performed, and that's going back a while. We might actually have to start turning people away and I can't remember the last time that happened."

Neal didn't want to ask, but he couldn't help himself. "Is Peter here?"

June shook her head. "Not yet, but don't worry. He'll be here, I'm certain of it."

"I'm glad one of us is."

June picked up the mascara wand from the dressing table and started working on Neal's eyelashes. "I wish you'd let me go see him, to tell him that this was all my fault."

"But it wasn't your fault."

"It was, sweetheart, it certainly was. If I hadn't played so coy when you were on stage in March, insisting that Peter had to see your whole act, if I'd just introduced you properly, none of this heartache would have happened."

"Maybe, but it's likely that Peter would never have seen me as anything more than an act, a client to represent. He might never have seen past the dress and the falsies. What happened was as much my fault as Peter's. I could have told him the truth the first time he mentioned Nicole. Everything would have played out so much differently."

June looked as if she was going to continue to protest. Neal gave her a hard stare from behind his heavily made-up lashes and she stopped. Neal was grateful that June said nothing more as she finished working on his face.

"Okay, arms up."

Despite the semi-argument they just had, Neal was suddenly a lot less nervous. June carefully dropped the heavy dress over his head, and as he stood up, it fell mostly into place. He adjusted the front, aligning the deep vee neck with his "cleavage" and let June zip him up.

There was just one more piece to complete his transformation – his wig. He settled it on his head – his own hair tightly contained by a stocking cap - and made sure the adhesive and clips would hold everything in place. Neal pulled on long white elbow length gloves and added wide rhinestone cuffs over each wrist.

Only then, did he check himself in the mirror. As always, the transformation kind of shocked him. He knew it was the dress, the foundation garments, the falsies, the makeup and of course, the wig, but he actually did look like a beautiful woman. Which unnerved him.

"You look stunning, Neal." June stood behind him, a pleased expression on her face.

"Thank you. For this, for everything."

June just nodded. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Of course you are."

Neal followed her out of the dressing room and through the maze of old furniture and sound equipment, to the back of the stage. The musicians were set up and just waiting for the lighting cue to begin playing Limehouse Blues, June's walk-on music. 

This show was a risk in so many ways. Most of the songs were new for him, but each song was part of a message. He just hoped that Peter was here to get it.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter wasn't the type of man who used his industry connections to get favors. Nor was he the type of man who got into fist fights. But right now, his temper was frayed and he was a heartbeat from punching the six-foot-nine doorman in the face. It didn't help his temper that he was late because the gasbags from the industry group insisted on getting milkshakes from Shake Shack. After a five course meal at The Four Seasons.

"Look, I've been invited." Peter pulled out the card he received.

"Don't look like no invite to me."

Peter did have to give him that – the card was an advertisement, not an invitation. "I'm close friends with June Ellington. You know, the lady who owns this place."

"And I'm drinking buddies with Barack Obama. You know, the guy in the White House."

Peter hated to admit it, but that was a good comeback. "Look, can you just go ask Paul? He knows me, too."

The doorman – or more appropriately, the hired muscle – folded his arms across his massive chest and shook his head. "Paul said the house was full. No one else gets in. I got my orders and I ain't disobeyin' them."

"So I guess this wouldn't help?" Peter pulled a one-hundred dollar bill from his money clip and held it up.

The muscle grunted, grabbed for the money, but Peter was quicker. "You get this when I'm on the other side of that door."

It took just two seconds. The velvet rope was unclipped; the doorman stood aside and let Peter through. Peter handed him the bribe and figured he got off cheaply.

And irony of ironies, Paul came rushing out. "Mr. Burke! We've been waiting for you! Mrs. June has been holding a table for you, come, come. Nicole is about to take the stage."

Peter was rushed to a small table, dead center in front of the stage, just as the house lights dimmed and the light sounds of a snare drum and clarinet began. June took the stage to uproarious applause.

"It's been a very long time since I got a greeting like that. Maybe when Byron got out of Rikers the first time. Let's just say I couldn't walk for a few days afterwards."

The crowd burst into laughter. 

"But you're not here to hear about my sex life." She leaned into the mic and cast a conspiratorial look around the room. "Or are you?"

There was more laughter; June's slightly risqué patter was a well-established part of her stage persona. She continued, "No, I don't think so. I think you're here for some fabulous music from a fabulous singer." She looked over her shoulder and said, "Hit it, boys."

They played the first few stanzas of "One For My Baby (and One More For the Road)" before June made a slicing motion across her throat. "Nope – I know I'm not the singer you came to hear."

The audience shouted out encouragement, and June shrugged. "Just warning you, these pipes aren't what they used to be."

And the response was, "We don't care."

"No, thankfully, you never do." June nodded to the band. "From the top, Marcel."

"Whatever you say, Ms. June. Whatever you say."

_It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me  
So, set 'em up, Joe, I got a little story you oughta know  
We're drinkin', my friend, to the end of a brief episode  
Make it one for my baby and one more for the road_

_I got the routine, so drop another nickel in the machine  
I'm feelin' so bad, wish you'd make the music pretty and sad  
Could tell you a lot, but you've got to be true to your code  
So, make it one for my baby and one more for the road_

June worked the audience and even Peter could feel the tug of sadness, but the humor of the song too.

_This torch that I found must be drowned or it soon might explode  
So, make it one for my baby and one more for the road  
That long, long road_

"That road, it's so damn long!"

June acknowledged the audience's worship, but lightly waved it off. "That's all you're getting out of me tonight. You know who's waiting behind this curtain, and so I ask you, for the very last time, here at _Ellington's_ or anywhere else, to please show your appreciation for Nicole!"

Peter held his breath as June stepped off the stage and the curtain rose. It was like that night almost three months ago, and knowing that this beautiful woman was an even more beautiful man didn't lessen the impact of his first glimpse of the tall, leggy brunette in silver lamé.

Neal – or should he say even in his head, Nicole seduced the audience before she sang a single note. It was in the subtleness of an arm movement, the tilt of her head, the proud stance before the microphone and a hushed, almost reverent audience.

Yes, it was pure theater and it was brilliant.

Then the music started; a honky-tong twang that sent chills up his spine. 

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you.  
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.  
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you.  
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you._

Nicole lifted her arms as she sang. 

_What a wicked game you play to make me feel this way.  
What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.  
What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way.  
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you_

Peter wondered – he had to – if there was a message in those aching, damning words. _No I don't want to fall in love with you_.

The song ended and Peter felt as if one sharp blow could shatter him, it hurt that much.

But the next song sent a completely different message.

_In your eyes  
I see the deepness of the sea  
I see the deepness of the love  
The love I feel you feel for me_

_Autumn comes, summer dies  
I see the passing of the years in your eyes  
And when we part there’ll be no tears, no goodbyes  
I’ll just look into your eyes_

_I feel the love you feel for me_

What was Neal trying to tell him? Or was he trying to tell him anything?

The roar of the audience was a jolt.

Unlike that night in March, when Nicole belted out song after song, this time, she talked to the audience. Her voice was not Neal's voice. It was throatier, if anything, a touch deeper. It was deliberately unfeminine.

"The roads we travel can be – as my dearest June just pointed out – pretty damn long. They can be hard, too. Not just the bumps and breaks, but all the turns and choices that you can make. I've made choices, and some of them were very bad. But I've learned from the pain those choices brought me. And some of what I've learned I need to forget."

The steady beat of the piano was joined by a slightly sour note from a clarinet.

_I'm leaving by night, I'm leaving alone  
I'm leaving it lie when you waken I'll be gone  
I would not beg for me as I would not beg for you  
Though I'd like to be the one to see you through_

_Every step you have taken disappears with the tide  
You're torn up and shaken with changing your mind  
You haven't got the grace to say you'll finally decide  
And you haven't got the strength to stay and fight_

Peter thought he understood the message here, but he didn't want to believe. He couldn't allow himself to hope.

The blows kept coming until Peter was numb. Between songs, Nicole stripped herself bare, revealing parts of herself that he knew Neal would never have the courage to do without the costume, without the masks that this persona gave him.

Peter tried to look at Nicole with the enthusiasm he had had for her before he'd learned the truth. He couldn't deny the tremendous talent, but as he listened, he remembered what Neal had told the reporter - that he was merely a forger - able to copy other artists' voices, styles, that he really didn't have one of his own. As much as he hated to admit it, Neal's self-assessment was right.

He was an excellent copyist, a forger, as he called himself. Not that with the right coaching and training he couldn't take that raw talent and find his own voice, his own style.

_Here is my song for the asking  
Ask me and I will play  
So sweetly, I’ll make you smile_

_This is my tune for the taking  
Take it, don’t turn away  
I’ve been waiting all my life_

_Thinking it over, I’ve been sad  
Thinking it over, I’d be more than glad  
To change my ways for the asking  
Ask me and I will play  
All the love that I hold inside_

Yes, Neal was amazing and it seemed like there was no style he couldn't replicate.

"My friends, this is my very last song. It is a gift, not just from me to you, but to everyone who has lived a lie and regretted the moment the truth was told, but never the truth itself."

Over the years, Peter had heard dozens of covers of Leonard Cohen's signature hymn, _Hallelujah_. While the song had power, it hadn't moved him in a long, long time.

But maybe it was the singer, or maybe it was the culmination of so much pain and hope and loss - emotions that resonated in each note. In each word.

_I did my best, it wasn't much  
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch  
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you  
And even though it all went wrong  
I'll stand before the Lord of Song  
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah_

As Hallelujah echoed over and over again, the spotlight shrank and Nicole disappeared as the stage went dark.

The audience erupted in furious applause and Peter, like everyone else, sprang out of his chair, calling for an encore.

But instead of Neal returning to the stage, June appeared.

She waited for the commotion to die back down and when she spoke, Peter could hear the tears in her voice.

"Nicole asked me to thank you, and to remember her with joy. But she is gone and despite your love and affection, she won't be back on stage, here or anywhere else. Nick, however, will be taking the stage soon, and I can promise you, you won't regret staying."

Peter wanted to go - not to leave the club, but to go backstage, to Neal's dressing room. He wanted to tell Neal that he got the message and that he would wait for him, however long that was. He was about to stand up, but found himself pressed firmly into his chair. 

"Don't think you're going anywhere, Suit. At least not for the moment." Two people pulled up chairs and sat down at his table. The speaker was a short guy, bald and bespectacled, wearing seersucker, of all things. With him was a rather stunning brunette, small and curvy, with bright blue eyes that were staring at him with amused curiosity.

"Do I know you?"

The brunette answered, "No, but you will. We're friends of Neal's. I'm Elizabeth and this is Mozzie."

Peter remembered Neal mentioning an Elizabeth as one of his colleagues. "You teach at Manhattan Prep, right? You're the former FBI agent."

Elizabeth nodded, clearly pleased that he knew who she was.

"I don't suppose that Neal mentioned a former chemistry teacher."

Something clicked in Peter's memory, something about a teacher who'd lost his job because he disagreed with the government's position on marijuana. "Actually, he did."

The little guy beamed.

"Look, I'd like to stay and chat, but – " Peter started to get up, but Elizabeth wrapped her hand around his wrist. For a small woman, her grip was strong, like a manacle. Peter figured it was her FBI training.

"Sit with us, Suit. We'd like to get to know you a bit better." Moz leaned back in his chair and the way the club lighting reflected on his glasses made Peter a little dizzy.

"Okay, but maybe we can do this another time?" Peter really wanted to get to Neal.

"No, now would be best."

"Look, I don't want to be rude, but …" He tugged, but unless he wanted to start knocking over tables and causing a scene, he wasn't going to break free.

Elizabeth let go of his hand. "Just relax. You are not going to talk to Neal until _after_ he finishes his performance."

"So you know about this?" Peter felt like an idiot for asking. Of course they did. "Did he ask you to keep me here?"

"Yes, we do and no, Neal didn't. And he'd probably be pissed at us for interfering, but it took him a long time to get to this point and if you talked to him now, he just might not be able to make it through this set."

Peter could understand that. He didn't like it, but he could accept it. "So I guess you know that I behaved like a total ass. I said some terrible things and I hurt Neal very badly."

The pair nodded like Chinese good-luck cats.

"And is this where you threaten me with grievous bodily harm if I hurt Neal again?"

Mozzie snorted, "As if we'd resort to such a tired and worn-out trope."

"Huh? Trope?"

Elizabeth's explanation confused him even further. "Even though Mozzie writes fan fiction, he is an excellent writer because he always tries to avoid clichés if he can."

"Fan fiction?" Of course, Peter knew what that was. Who didn't these days? But he couldn't picture this strange little man writing steamy scenes between fictional characters who probably didn't even like each other.

But apparently he did, as Elizabeth proudly informed him. "Moz is a BNF in the Tiles of Fire fandom. His hate-sex stories between Farmer Boy and Li Kang burn up the Internet."

Peter felt liked he'd just fallen, head-first, down Alice's rabbit hole. He had no idea what anything she had just said meant.

Thankfully, the house lights dimmed and Elizabeth and Mozzie took off, probably back to the alternate universe they inhabited. The band reprised "Limehouse Blues" as June took the stage again.

She kept the introduction brief. "My friends, thank you for waiting. Nicole may have left the building, but Nick is here to warm you up."

Peter's heart raced as the curtain rose; this was what he'd missed that night in March. The single picture he'd seen of Neal as "Nick" – a blurry shot posted on Instagram, had made his mouth water once he'd gotten past his anger. The man on stage now was dressed in an impeccably cut tux, dark hair a little slicked back, but his eyes and lips were still adorned with Nicole's makeup. Peter couldn't breathe from the desire that rose in his veins.

_If you could read my mind, love  
What a tale my thoughts could tell  
Just like an old-time movie  
'Bout a ghost from a wishin' well  
In a castle dark or a fortress strong  
With chains upon my feet  
You know that ghost is me  
And I will never be set free   
As long as I'm a ghost that you can't see _

Peter knew the Gordon Lightfoot classic like the back of his hand. The summer he turned seven, this song had been in heavy rotation on AM radio. At the time, he hadn't understood what the words meant, but the music and the singer's voice always made him feel a desperately sad. But it had become something of a disco hit when he was in high school, and that had always struck him as ironic – the singer mourning the loss of deeper feeling when disco was all about living in the moment.

Now, though, he wondered just what Neal was trying to tell him. 

And then he didn't have to wonder at all.

"I know you loved Nicole, and she loved you, too. But she wasn't real – she was a mask I created, someone I could use to make some dreams come true. No – not dreams of fame and fortune, but dreams of strength, of fearlessness. And yet, over the past few months, I've discovered that I don't need Nicole to be strong. And so, in the same way that the singer talks about his wife, I can tell you about Nicole. We'd grown distant – she was as much of a ghost as any fantasy. She couldn't rescue me, but she taught me that I could rescue myself."

Peter knew, down to his bones, that this was the truth, like Nicole's earlier revelations. The lights, the stage, even the tux and the makeup, gave Neal the courage to strip himself bare and show him – and the world - what he was.

A soft, almost conversational set of piano chords introduced the next song and Peter felt himself grinning at the choice. It was so inappropriately appropriate.

_Don't go changing, to try and please me  
You never let me down before  
Don't imagine you're too familiar  
And I don't see you anymore_

_I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble  
We never could have come this far  
I took the good times, I'll take the bad times  
I'll take you just the way you are_

Peter listened in a haze of pleasure, doing his best not to get up and sweep Neal off the stage and into his arms. Every word was calculated to seduce him. Not sexually, but emotionally, intellectually. 

Existentially. It made him feel alive. 

The music was so carefully chosen and it was hard to remember that he and Neal barely knew each other – at least in linear time.

Even the songs of love and loss resonated. He could feel Neal's fear, because it was his own.

_I wanna have you  
'Cause you're all I've got  
Don't wanna lose you  
'Cause it means a lot  
All the joy this world can bring  
Doesn't give me anything  
When you're not here ..._

_Idiot me  
Stupid fool  
How could you be  
So uncool?  
To fall in love with someone who  
Doesn't really care for you  
It's so obscure..._

Peter wanted to call out and tell Neal that he was loved, but he still held back. Not out of fear, but out of respect. This set would come to an end – and after six songs and almost as many confessional moments, Peter knew that the moment would be coming soon.

And it did, with gut-wrenching honesty.

_I bruise you, you bruise me  
We both bruise too easily, too easily to let it show  
I love you and that's all I know ._

_All my plans have fallin' through,  
All my plans depend on you, depend on you to help them grow,  
I love you and that's all I know._

_When the singer's gone let the song go on...  
But the ending always comes at last,  
Endings always come too fast,  
They come too fast but they past too slow,  
I love you and that's all I know ._

Unlike Nicole's dramatic exit, Nick played the audience, taking bows, accepting a bouquet of flowers, blowing kisses, and when he walked off the stage, the musicians stayed behind. A few moments later, the lights dimmed and Neal, still as Nick, returned.

The song that Neal picked for his encore sent chills down Peter's spine.

_The first time ever I saw your face  
I thought the sun rose in your eyes  
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave  
To the dark and the endless skies, my love  
To the dark and the endless skies_

Neal moved to the edge of the stage, and for the very first time that entire night, he was looking directly at Peter, he was singing to him as if they were the only ones in the room.

_And the first time ever I kissed your mouth  
I felt the earth move in my hand  
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird  
That was there at my command, my love  
That was there at my command, my love_

If Peter had any doubts about Neal's feelings after the dual performance tonight, this encore, this song, the words themselves laid those doubts to rest.

_And the first time ever I lay with you  
I felt your heart so close to mine  
And I knew our joy would fill the earth  
And last 'til the end of time, my love  
And it would last 'til the end of time, my love_

_My love, my love, my love_

As the last notes faded, Neal stepped back and the stage went dark. Peter was out of his seat and heading towards the back before the audience started clapping. He'd been patient until it nearly killed him.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Like one of his students at the end of finals week, Neal was grateful beyond words that this performance was over. Since Sunday, he'd re-worked both sets, putting in and pulling out songs, trying to hone a message to a man he wasn't sure would even show up.

The rehearsals had been brutal, too – of the fourteen songs, he'd actually only performed three of them before. _Ellington's_ house band, thankfully, was experienced and flexible and accommodated his craziness. He would have rehearsed until he lost his voice, but June had been there to keep him from making that mistake.

He just wanted everything to be perfect.

Neal had thought about delivering the show card to Peter's office himself, but that would have been a mistake. He also thought about including a note, or some type of message, something that would draw Peter in. But he didn't do that either.

It Peter wanted to be here, he'd come. If he didn't, there was nothing Neal could do to entice him back.

At least he hadn't gone out on stage without knowing if Peter had or had not shown up. June was clever and told him that if she sang "Strangers in the Night", Peter was not there, but if she did "One for My Baby", he was.

Not that Neal could see into the audience with the spotlight focused on him, but he sensed Peter's presence. Or at least that's what he told himself to keep going when all he wanted to do was run off the stage and hide back here, in the bowels of the club.

Exhausted, hot, and more than a touch depressed, Neal leaned against the wall and pulled his bowtie loose and undid the first few buttons of his dress shirt. Not that that helped. The backstage area wasn't air conditioned, and worse, his entire torso was still encased in the heavy Spandex and Lycra garment he wore to fit into Nicole's costume. There was never enough time between sets to get himself out of that, and he just took off the bra and fake boobs before getting into Nick's tuxedo.

At least this was the last time he'd have to do that.

"Neal?" 

He turned his head and there was Peter, tall and beautiful, wearing the same gray suit he'd worn that night they'd met at June's.

"You were magnificent."

Neal smiled slightly. "It was a farewell performance." He wanted Peter to understand that he wasn't looking for fame or fortune or any career other than the one he had at an Upper West Side private school.

"I know, and you took my breath away. Over and over again."

Neal swallowed, not sure of what to say. His throat was dry and his voice felt used up.

"I have to ask. Did you send me the notice?"

Neal nodded. "I wanted you here."

"Why?"

Maybe Peter didn't understand. "I'm not looking for representation. This is it, I'm done with performing."

"I know that. So why did you want me here?"

It felt all horrible and awkward now, nothing like what he'd planned. All the words, the beautiful words of love and forgiveness couldn't make it past his lips. He shook his head and bit his lip, wishing he could sink into the floor and disappear.

Peter moved closer, and the heat from his body was different, welcome. It took all of Neal's strength not to lean into it.

"I think you wanted me here because you wanted to tell me something. I think you wanted me to listen to those songs and understand the man that you are, and how a man like me could fit into your life."

Neal felt like sobbing with relief. Peter did understand. "Do you want to fit into my life?"

Peter smiled. "If you want to fit into mine."

"Yes, oh god, yes." 

He wasn't sure if he reached for Peter or if Peter reached for him, but they were in each other's arms and their mouths met and Peter was kissing him. And he was kissing Peter and all of the voices that whispered to him about pain and worry and fear that had dogged him for so long were silenced.

Peter lifted his mouth and when he smiled, there was a little spark of mischief in his eyes. "You know, this is the first time in almost thirty years that I've kissed the lipstick off of someone's mouth."

Neal let out a shout of laughter and it felt so damn good. "Of all the things I expected you to say, that was the very last on the list, if it even made the list."

Peter chuckled and wiped his lips with his thumb and looked at the smear of red. "Well, as you say, it's the last time."

"It is." Neal sighed. "I was afraid, Peter."

"I'd never, ever hit you, Neal. I know that I have a wicked tongue sometimes and I can say things that are – well – cruel when I'm angry. And that's something I have to work on."

"That's not what I was afraid of, not really."

"No?"

"I was afraid that I'd be powerless." It hurt like hell to admit it. "That I'd become nothing again."

Peter nodded. "I know – you said you were scared that you'd lose yourself again. I wouldn't let that happen." Peter stroked his cheek. "You know what it was about you that attracted me that first night?"

"My underwear model good looks?"

Peter tilted his head, acknowledging that, yes, Neal had a strong physical appeal. "More than that, it was your intelligence, your strength of personality, your wit. I don't want – or need – an appendage. I want an equal. And you are, despite your fears, my equal. Or more than my equal. I won't let you lose yourself."

Neal reached out and replicated Peter's gesture. "Good. But I realized something. Or rather, a my friend, Elizabeth, helped me realize something."

"Which is?"

"I have power, too. As much power to make you hurt as you hurt me. I can say cruel things, too. I can be an asshole, too. And it's likely, if we're together for any length of time, I will be that asshole."

"There are two sides to that coin, Neal. You also have the power to make me happy."

He sucked in his breath. "Yes, I do. And I want to make you happy. And I want you to make _me_ happy." The last came out in a rush and Neal felt his cheeks burn.

Peter smiled and rested his head against his. "You would make me very happy if you were part of my life."

"That's almost a song, you know."

"Don't, whatever you do, don't start humming that tune. I spent the better part of eighth grade with that earworm in my head."

"Okay, I won't. But just so I'm clear – are we talking Debby Boone or Fleetwood Mac?"

Peter growled and kissed him. "How would you like to go away with me?"

"Now?"

"Now, yes. And also this weekend. I've got a vacation booked. Have you ever been to Belize? I'm staying at a friend's incredible beach front villa. I'd planned on spending the week sipping frou-frou drinks and reading the latest Nelson DeMille. I'd rather spend it with you. No strings – separate bedrooms if you want."

"And if I don't want?"

"To go with me?"

"No, what if I don't want separate bedrooms?"

"I'm sure I could live with that. I don't think it would be too much of a hardship."

Neal felt a little mischievous, and said in the most off-hand manner he could muster, "Well, maybe we should take it slowly. Get to really know each other first."

Peter backed away a bit, and he seemed a little deflated. "Well, okay. If that's what you think is best. The place – from what I've seen – is huge. We'll go as slowly as you want."

Like that first afternoon in Peter's apartment, Neal felt reckless. "Really? How about going as fast as I liked?"

"We can go as fast or as slow as you like, how does that sound?"

"Like perfection." This time, Neal kissed Peter and kept on kissing him until he felt him start to tremble. 

"This is crazy, you know that? We haven't talked for three months and all I want to do is fuck you against the wall."

Neal shivered. "I want that, too." He canted his hips against Peter's to give proof of that. "But tonight's probably not a good idea. Wouldn't want to scare the staff."

Then Peter shocked him. "I lost my virginity back here. The summer before I started Harvard. I don't remember his name, but he could suck-start a leaf-blower and I think I came in like two minutes."

"You're crazy, you know that?"

Peter rested his arm against the wall, but Neal didn't feel at all trapped. "No crazier than you."

"Wanna get out of here?"

"I thought you'd never ask." 

A woman's warm and happy chuckle interrupted them and they both looked up to find June standing in the dark corridor, smiling. "Peter's not the first person to lose their virginity behind the stage at _Ellington's_."

Neal's jaw dropped and he felt Peter's own astonishment.

"Go, get out of here. Be happy, both of you."

Neal ducked out from under Peter's arm and hugged his godmother. "Thank you, thank you for everything."

Peter kissed June's cheek, then grabbed Neal's hand, gently tugging him towards the fire exit. As he pushed the door open, the alarm sounded. As they ran down the block, Neal heard June's laughter and he thought that was the sweetest sound in the world.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

June pulled the old, heavy door shut and turned off the siren. She was so happy for Neal. And for Peter. But she was just a little sad, too. It was so nice having Neal under her roof. He brought light and joy into her life. But he was entitled to a life of his own, with a good man. One who understood just how special he was. 

She made her way back to the club's dressing room, and was a little surprised at what she found. Nicole's costume – the beautiful lamé dress – was draped over the dressing table and spilling onto the floor. One long white glove was on the stool and there was no sign of the second one. The long, brunette wig was in the trash, along with the falsies and the bra Neal had used.

June sniffled and wiped at her cheeks. Yes, Nicole and everything she was, was gone.

But never forgotten. 

She picked up the dress, carefully hanging it back in its garment bag. The second glove had fallen to the floor, and she rescued it – folding it up with its mate. The rhinestone bracelets were there, too. She tucked everything into the bag and zipped it up. She knew that Neal would never put the garment on again, but it never hurt to have a reminder of something well worth remembering.

June wiped the tears from her cheeks and thought, foolish old woman, to get so sentimental over a silly costume.

But she still took the garment bag, cradling it carefully in her arms. As she walked back to the front of the house, she thought she could still hear Byron's music, his laughter, his happiness. 

Like all the best songs, love has a way of echoing in the rafters long after the singer has left the stage.

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the extensive notes in the LiveJournal [Masterpost entry](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/537089.html).


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